The Doonkelberry Revolution
by karly05
Summary: If you have been following my "Candace arc," you are in the right place. If you haven't read "On the Edge of an Unspoiled Universe," you really need to do that before starting this series of stories dealing with events during the following year. The eventual outcome of this has been in my head-canon for years and I'm relieved to finally have it done.
1. Foreword

The Doonkelberry Revolution

Author's Foreword

It has been nearly four years since I posted my first P&F fanfic here. Well, you know what they say: Time flies when you're having fun. I've never done a separate foreword for a story before, but this sprawling mess needs it, so…

Here's what is about to happen. "The Doonkelberry Revolution" is going to be a series of stories that all fit together in a sequence, covering events during the course of the year that began with "On the Edge of an Unspoiled Universe." _That_ story was a big reminder to me of why I don't like to start posting multi-chapter fics I haven't already finished writing, since it ended up hanging out there incomplete for a ridiculous amount of time. Every segment of this project is done, and I will be posting one story or chapter at a time in installments no more than a week apart. My plan is to post an installment every Friday night.

If you've been following my "Candace arc," you are in the right place. If you haven't read "Candy Cane Christmas," you might want to do that first, and you really really seriously need to read "On the Edge of an Unspoiled Universe" before you start this. Honestly, "Universe" should have been the first several installments of this, but I didn't want to take it down and move it. I DID move "The New Kid," which will show up in this sequence in due time. Arguably, I could have moved "Dinner Date" under this umbrella, too, but I didn't want to. I will, however, be back to nag you about reading "Dinner Date" when I get to the appropriate point in this series. "Ten Dollars" takes place early in this same year, but the only relevant point in that is the fact that Phineas is not around for any of the events that follow "Unspoiled Universe."

Now is a good time for me to throw out a disclaimer: As much as I like storytelling – mapping out general arcs of what happens to people – _plot_ has never been my strong suit. I've had the basic main ideas of this for a long time, but I've fought the _plotting_ of this every step of the way, and I'm sure it has more holes than the proverbial piece of Swiss cheese. Just keep telling yourself, "It's only a cartoon." On the positive side, I've had a lot of fun using some (literally) one-shot characters from the series. Hopefully you've seen the right P &F episodes to recognize them when they show up.

Now is also a good time to remind everyone that my head-canon long predates the last episodes of P&F, so certain things (in particular, Heinz Doofenshmirtz still Doing Evil at this point) are not in line with the eventual series canon.

Dan Povenmire and Jeff "Swampy" Marsh own most of the characters, but I'm the one mangling them here.

And away we go…


	2. Good News is No News

Good News is No News

Ambrose Petersen was buttoning up his shirt in anticipation of another day at City Hall. He had been working at his new job as the Mayor's Communications Director for a little over four months. It was a good job. Roger Doofenshmirtz was a good man, and a good boss. Ambrose had a good wife, a good little daughter, and a good little dog, and he had a new son on the way who would doubtless be good as well. He was still angling for a nice house in the nice neighborhood of Meadowcrest, but for now he had a perfectly good townhouse apartment. He lived in the good city of Danville where every day was a good day, and he would have been the first to admit, he was a lucky fellow with a very good life.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Danville – heck, the entire Tri-State Area – had simply become too good for its own good.

Today was Monday. Yesterday had been a horrible day for Ambrose. He had witnessed a death that hurt him more deeply than he could have imagined. _The Daily Danville_ , the city's own newspaper, had published its final edition on Sunday and was now relegated to obsolesence, alongside the 8-track tape and the typewriter. The demise of the paper had not been a surprise. Ever since the last corporate buyout at the start of this year, the _Daily Danville_ had become less and less about journalism and more about fluffy human interest stories: new tigers at the zoo or new fossils at the museum, how many cupcakes the Fireside Girls had sold or how many games the Danville U basketball team had won. There were still national news items picked up from a syndicate, and the last surviving specimens of comics and classified ads. But it had become more and more clear that the paper was a mere shadow of its once-robust self, and its will to survive was ebbing away. And now, on Monday morning, the front stoop was bare and the _Daily Danville_ , where Ambrose Petersen of Minneapolis, Minnesota and the Danville University Journalism Program had begun his career, was no more.

Candace had been sympathetic, but it wasn't the same for her, and whatever sadness she felt was mostly nostalgia for her childhood breafkast table, where her parents swapped sections of the paper while she read the comics over a bowl of sugary cereal. "Honey, it's the twenty-first century," she had explained gently, like a parent rationalizing why great-grandpa was In a Better Place. Ambrose knew it was a valid point. "News" these days was driven more and more by blogs and social media. Clark Kent was a relic.

He was tucking a necktie under his collar when Candace's voice sounded from downstairs. "Honey, hurry up! You're going to be on Channel 9!"

"Coming," he called back, sorting out the tie.

"They said right after the break," she warned.

"On the way." He stayed where he was, looping and knotting and straightening his neckwear. He did find it amusing, the way Candace now insisted on watching the _Channel 9 Breakfast Show_ instead of WJOP's _Wake Up. Danville_ , where she'd been an anchor until starting her maternity leave a week ago. She had made some silly excuse about Channel 9 doing more traffic breaks or something, but he knew it was really about Candace's annoyance that WJOP had given her spot at the anchor desk to Wendy the Weather Girl. Frankly, Ambrose didn't care what channel she watched. The local television news was no more hard-hitting than the paper had been. Then again, what did the smiling TV faces have to report on anyway? The Tri-State Area was hardly a hotbed of scandal or strife. Now and then, someone might claim to have seen something weird, but Candace said Danvillians had seen so much weirdness over the years, no one paid those reports much attention. Her favorite retort to any such tale was, "You think _that's_ weird, you should have lived here when my brothers were kids." Even the sporadic attempts by the Mayor's brother to cause mischief always somehow resolved themselves with no real harm done. Life in Danville was just too good.

"Honeyyyyyy…" Candace yelled.

"Right here, Candy Cane," he came downstairs into the living room as the grinning Breakfast Show Crew introduced their next story. The Tri-State Humane Society was getting ready for their annual Find a Furry Friend event and Ambrose had accompanied the Mayor to the shelter on Saturday to promote pet adoptions. Channel 9 had packaged a nice story out of it, and Ambrose was proud of what he'd been part of. There were clips of Mayor Doofenshmirtz's speech, which Ambrose had written, and lots of footage of the Mayor smothered in kittens. On anyone else, it would have looked clumsy and staged, but Roger Doofenshmirtz was such an enthusiastic Cat Person, it was clear he was having the time of his life with his new feline friends. Somewhere in the midst of the report, Amanda, who was watching with them, squealed, "Look! Daddy!" and there was a shot of Ambrose petting a big, tail-wagging dog while talking with a shelter volunteer. Now he found himself smiling as he watched the footage. That had been a good day.

Danville was a good place, run by a good man who had given him a good job that allowed him to take care of his good family. Yeah, thought Ambrose, watching the video of Roger Doofenshmirtz placing a kitten in the hands of a delighted young adoptive pet parent, life here was good. Ambrose Petersen really was a lucky fellow with a very good life.

And there was nothing bad about that.

The End

 **A/N – Well, the end of the first story. Stay tuned; this was just setting the stage.**


	3. Indigenous Peoples

**A/N – Confession time: when I made reference to "Wendy the Weather Girl" in the previous story, I never thought about the fact that Wendy is the name of the "pretty girl from the math team" Baljeet kisses in the "Christmas Vacation" episode. So, that was not an intentional series reference – but you're welcome to take it as one. ;-) Oh, and yes, the Mayor's office has added an intercom since the days of the series.**

Indigenous Peoples

Ambrose Petersen walked up the steps of City Hall on a beautiful June morning. The sunshine and birdsong were wasted on him today, however, because he was on a mission. He had very nearly called Mayor Doofenshmirtz late last night after he'd gotten home from his investigation, but decided it was better to inform him face to face about the problem.

He popped his lunch sack in the break room fridge and dropped his briefcase by his desk then headed for the Mayor's office. "Morning, Melanie," he greeted the woman guarding the door.

"Hello, Ambrose." Ms. Grissel always had a dry, disinterested tone to her voice, but Ambrose had learned not to take it personally.

"Is the Chief in? I need to talk to him."

She was sorting through the morning mail and, without looking up from her work, reached over and pushed the intercom button. "Mr. Petersen to see you, Sir."

A jovial voice came from the speaker. "Well, tell him to come in, Melanie." Roger Doofenshmirtz was on his feet and came forward with a beaming smile when Ambrose entered the spacious office. "Well, well, how's my right-hand man this morning? Looking ready to take on the world." This was accompanied by a clap on the shoulder. "Have a seat." As he reclaimed his chair behind the desk, the Mayor invited, "What's on your mind?"

Ambrose cut to the chase. "Sir, I think we have a problem."

Roger looked for a moment as if he'd just sat down on a tack, but he said, "Really?" as if the word 'problem' was not in his vocabulary.

"About a week ago, I was out with my daughter…"

"Oh, yes, dear little Amanda," the Mayor smiled fondly. "Darling child."

"Thanks," Ambrose acknowledged this comment before resuming. "We were on our way home, and we drove by the Doonkenol plant. It was nearly dark, but she said she saw something."

Roger looked as if that tack was bothering him again. "What sort of… something?"

"Little blue men, coming out of the ground. They were in the field, eating the doonkelberries. I know," he responded to the Mayor's indulgent smile, "I thought she was just imagining things. Maybe the light, playing tricks…"

"Ambrose," he waxed sentimental, "do you remember when you were that age? When I was a little boy, I was convinced there was a wood troll living in our outhouse. Of course, it was all my imagination, but no one could have convinced me otherwise at the time. Children are so impressionable."

"I know," Ambrose nodded, "that's exactly what I thought. But she kept talking about the 'little blue men,' and it bothered me enough, I thought maybe I ought to go back and look."

"Oh, dear," the Mayor looked concerned, "I really wouldn't advise that. Between the two of us, it's dangerous to go roaming around the power plant. The Drusselsteinians have set up some serious security measures, what with foreign spies trying to steal their formula, not to mention my brother Heinz and his shenanigans…"

"Oh, I didn't go onto the grounds," Ambrose assured him. "Just parked outside the fence."

"You've been back?" Tacks in the chair again.

"Last night, just after dark."

"What did you see?"

"Little blue men," Ambrose confessed, with an anxious grimace. "Coming out of the ground, just like Amanda said. They were – " he searched for a word intense enough, " _devouring_ the plants. Leaves, fruit, the whole thing. They're going to wipe out our supply of doonkelberries for the Doonkenol plant. We have to do something about them."

Mayor Doofenshmirtz got to his feet with a pensive frown. Emerging from behind the desk, he paced the plush carpet with his head tilted back, chin thrust out and lips pursed as he pondered the situation. With a deep sigh, he said, "Ambrose… I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this." His hand came to rest on the younger man's shoulder as he passed behind him.

Ambrose craned to look up at the Mayor, suddenly alarmed that he was about to lose his job. "I'm not crazy."

"I know." Roger patted the shoulder. Coming back around into Ambrose's line of sight, the Mayor leaned against the front of the desk and folded his arms. "You're not from here originally, are you?"

"No, sir. Minneapolis."

"So you don't know the history of the Tri-State Area. The _entire_ history," he specified, when Ambrose moved to defend his acquired learning. "Those 'little blue men,' as you call them – they are an indigenous people. They were here long before you and I moved in. Before Danville. Before John P. Tristate, himself. They call themselves the Badinkadinks."

Ambrose's brow narrowed skeptically and he suppressed a snicker. "The Badinka… _whats_?"

"The doonkelberry fields and the power plant are on their land."

"I thought that was your mother's land," said Ambrose. " _You_ own that land."

"Legally, yes. But, morally… You see, Ambrose, the Badinkadinks are a very misunderstood people. John P. Tristate viewed them as savages who would lay waste to his new settlement. People thought they would carry off their livestock and eat their children."

"Seriously? They're only that big." Ambrose gestured with his hand to indicate a height of a couple of feet.

"And they're vegetarians," the Mayor pointed out. "Their idea of 'laying waste to the surface dwellers' is eating a dandelion. Or a doonkelberry plant," he conceded, fending off Ambrose's protest. "Trust me, they are perfectly harmless. But they're… different. And you know how that alarms people."

"Well, then, maybe we ought to do something to change that," the young man proposed. "You could put out a press release, make a speech, let everyone know that they're nothing to be afraid of."

"I admire your idealism, my boy; I really do. I'd like to believe we could all live in harmony. But I come from a people who are still afraid of witches and wood trolls. No, it's best for everyone if the little blue men remain just a children's fairy tale." With an upraised hand, he silenced whatever debate Ambrose was about to put forward. "No good could come of people knowing they exist. If they weren't exterminated, they'd be exploited. How many did you see?"

"Six, or seven," he guessed.

"That's probably all that are left," Roger shook his head sadly. "Please, Ambrose, promise me they'll be left in peace."

"Well…" Far be it from him to bring about the extinction of an indigenous species. "I suppose you're right. But – what about the doonkelberries?"

"Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of doonkelberries to go around. How many can half a dozen little Badinkadinks eat? Tell me," he walked around to his chair behind the desk and sat down again, "does Mrs. Petersen know about this?"

"No, she thinks Amanda's just making up imaginary friends. I didn't know about them for sure until last night. And I wanted to see you before I said anything to anyone else."

"Good man. Ambrose… I'm hesitant to ask this." His expression was one of pained regret. "But, I know you'll do what's best."

"Absolutely, sir."

"Let's let your wife go on thinking that this is Amanda's imagination. Can we? It's asking a lot of you, I know, to keep this from her, but… well," he confessed, "I wouldn't want this getting back to the _Wake Up, Danville_ newsroom. And, honestly, I wouldn't want to concern her with this, not with the new baby to care for. She has more important things to focus on right now. How is the little nipper, by the way?" he asked, with a warm smile.

"Oh, doing great," Ambrose beamed when his new favorite subject was broached. "He's really amazing."

"A chip off the old block, I'm sure. I hope Candace will be able to take some time off while he's so young. When does she go back to work?"

"Oh, she wants to spend at least a few months with the kids. I think she'd take a year or two if she could." Ambrose had been iffy about the plan. He really did want his Candy Cane to be happy, but there was the new house to consider, and it would take some planning to budget around just his paycheck.

"Then we need to make that happen for her," Mayor Doofenshmirtz proclaimed. "There are plenty of ways I'd like to help out your little family. I think a monthly bonus might be in order."

Ambrose could hardly believe his ears. "S-sir! You don't have to…"

"Nonsense," he waved this off. "The doonkelberry market is booming thanks to our Doonkenol project; it's the wave of the future. I want my staffers to share in the bounty." Again, the Mayor deflected whatever objections the young man might have raised. "Ambrose, you've heard me speak of my dear mother." He put a hand to his heart when he mentioned her. "I wouldn't be where I am today without her unwavering love and support. Ah, yes," there was a moist gleam in his eye. "There is nothing more important to a boy than his mother's devotion."

Ambrose had no argument for that. Flush with happiness and gratitude, he rose and shook the hand of Roger Doofenshmirtz. "Thank you, sir."

"No, no," the Mayor modestly deflected this gratitude. "You've earned it. You don't know how glad I am to have you on my team."

Ambrose beamed and gave the mayoral hand another shake. "You can count on me, sir."

THE END

 **A/N – OK, there's my first intentional "Surprise Reference to the Series" – The Badinkadinks are from the early episode "Toy to the World," where Phineas and Ferb take over the toy factory to produce their Perry the Platypus Inaction Figure. In the episode, the Badinkadinks have the line, "We will now lay waste to the surface dwellers!" – but that doesn't necessarily mean humans. They will be back.**

 **Oh, and "The New Kid" will be next week's installment. If you read it when it was posted before, now you know why it needs to be read in context after this one.**


	4. The New Kid

**A/N – This was originally posted as a separate story, but I took it down and reposted it here. If you've read last week's installment ("Indigenous Peoples") you'll have a whole new perspective on this.**

The New Kid

Candace Petersen was head over heels in love. The object of her affection was sitting in the kitchen sink, gazing up at her with those big, trusting eyes. His cute, round face smiled in response to her smile, and he happily smacked his tiny palms on the surface of the shallow water.

"Who's my snoogy woogums?" she prattled goofily to her baby boy. "Does he like his bath? Yes," she affirmed with an exaggerated nod . "Yes, he does! We're gonna get you all clean and handsome for Grammy and Grampy." Candace didn't know if this was intentional or a happy coincidence, but the baby clapped his hands together and made an attempt at a laugh when she mentioned his grandparents. "Oh, you love Grammy and Grampy, don't you? I know you do! They are going to be so happy to see you! Yes, they are!" It was the same silly baby-talk voice Candace had used when Amanda was tiny, and she was glad she had an excuse to use it again on the New Kid.

They had called him that for so long before his birth – before they had even known that he was a _he_ – Candace still found herself mentally referring to him that way now and then. But, the New Kid had a name, and it wasn't Snoogy Oogums. It was Fred Xavier Petersen. When Candace and Ambrose had first agreed on this, she had hoped that when their son was old enough to decide for himself, he would want to be called by his middle name. But in the three months since his birth, she had changed her mind. The New Kid was Fred, and she hoped he would stay Fred. It just suited him.

It was late August and another summer was nearly over. This time next week, Amanda would be starting first grade. She really was growing up so fast, thought Candace, observing from the window over the sink as her daughter played in the backyard, enacting some epic princess adventure with her Darcie dolls. Candace had to give Ambrose credit – his New Year's Resolution to move the family to Meadowcrest had been a good decision. Their quaint brick cottage was one of the smaller houses in the quiet, refined old neighborhood, but the 1930s plan allowed for three bedrooms and a formal dining room. The yard was not nearly as big as the Flynn-Fletchers', and instead of one landmark shade tree, the back of the lot was lined with evergreens. But there was enough space for a swingset and a wading pool, and to Amanda, it was a vast kingdom.

Now Candace had Fred out of the bath and was wrapping him in a yellow hooded towel that made him look like a duck. Not Ducky Momo, exactly, but close enough, and she started crooning the old cartoon theme song to him as she dried him off. "Who's the happy time toy toy, for every girl and boy boy…"

"Trixie, no! Drop it!" Ambrose's voice carried from another room, in the sternest tone he could ever bear to use with the dog. Candace heard the scribble-scrabble of little canine toenails on the tile floor of the kitchen and looked over her shoulder to see the black and white tzudle come stumbling by at full speed, taking refuge under Fred's high chair. In her mouth she carried something more than half her size, and Ambrose was in hot pursuit of her. "Trixie's got the cat again," he informed his wife with exasperation.

Scooping up her bright yellow bundle of joy, Candace came to see what her husband was fretting about and recognized the powder blue toy held prisoner by courageous paws and teeth. "Oh, no, not Mister Snuggles!" she lamented. The soft stuffed kitty had been given to baby Fred by the Mayor, himself (as Ambrose never missed a chance to tell people), but Trixie had developed some savage fascination with it.

On hands and knees, Ambrose got a grip on the cat's leg and tugged at it. Trixie gave a brave, never-surrender growl and with a vigorous shake of her head clamped her jaws tighter on the toy. "Trixie! This is not tug of war!" Ambrose pulled at the toy and Trixie came sliding out from under the chair. "This is _not_ tug of war!"

Fred was actually amused watching Daddy play with the Puppy, but Ambrose at last rescued Mister Snuggles and inspected the cat for injuries. Luckily, it was a quality toy and very well made. "I'd hate to see what she'd do to a real cat," Ambrose was chuckling now that the crisis was over.

"A real cat would beat her up," said Candace.

"Here you go, Freddo," Ambrose consoled his son, dancing the blue cat playfully toward him. Fred looked uneasily at the toy and warded it off with a hand. "It's all right," Daddy assured him. "Good as new."

Fred buried his face in Mommy's shoulder and made an unhappy noise, and Candace pointed out, "It probably smells like doggie breath. Don't worry, Snookums," she cooed to her son. "Mommy will get the smelly old kitty clean for her widdle man."

"I'll put him in the laundry," Ambrose sighed. "And you," he addressed Trixie in a voice more coddling than scolding, "can go outside and play with your sister until you're ready to behave."

Leaving her husband to carry out this sentence, Candace took her little Ducky Momo to his nursery to be diapered and dressed. His wardrobe of onesies could have clothed a whole cabbage patch full of infants, but with Grampy coming to see him, the costume choice was easy. By the time Ambrose joined them, Fred was sporting the official green and yellow team colors of the Sniffleton Nostrils.

Ambrose chuckled as he ruffled the little thatch of brown hair on his son's head. "Your dad's going to make a soccer fan out of him one way or another."

"I think you mean _football enthusiast_ ," Candace corrected him teasingly, combing Fred's hair back into place with her fingers. "Such a cutie patootie!" She hoisted the baby in her hands, lifting him high, then brought him down to her eye level and nuzzled his cheek, pretending to gobble up her little sugar pie with a "Numnumnumnum" that made him smile and coo.

"You ready to show Grammy and Gramps your new house, Fredmeister?" Ambrose took the tiny hand extended toward him and jiggled it playfully.

"We can't wait," Candace slid back into the baby talk voice. "No, we can't!" The baby talk was admittedly more deliberate than sincere when she added, as if on Fred's behalf, "We still want Uncle Ferb and Auntie Vanessa to come see us, too, though."

"I know, I know," Ambrose was at least making an effort not to grumble. "I'm not trying to keep them out. I just want the house to be presentable. Get everything fixed up first."

"It's presentable now," she insisted, in her normal voice. Candace knew perfectly well what the real problem was. Ambrose didn't mind hosting her parents, he wouldn't have cared if she'd invited Vanessa down from Ackerton for coffee. He just didn't want her stepbrother near the house because he had some crazy dread that Ferb wouldn't approve of the place and would be full of ideas on how to make it better. It was a stupid argument that she was getting tired of. "Seriously, I don't know why you still have this hangup about Ferb and the house. What do you think he's going to say?"

"It's not what he says," retorted Ambrose, "it's how he doesn't say it."

"Uuurgh," Candace vented her frustration. She knew the distaste was a two-way street; Ferb was always a model of proper manners around her husband, but she could tell that he was no fonder of Ambrose than Ambrose was of him. Honestly, they were two grown men! Why was it so hard for them to get along?

Mercifully, the current round of this debate was cut short by the sound of the back door slamming and Amanda and Trixie running through the house. "Grammy and Grampy are here!" their daughter called out. Candace hadn't even noticed the sound of her parents' car pulling up the drive.

Amanda had the front door open before they could get there, and Candace heard her Dad's voice addressing the child in a tone of polite surprise, "Well, hello there, Miss. Can you tell me if Amanda is at home?"

It was not the first time Candace had heard this exchange between them. Right on cue, the little girl laughed, " _I'm_ Amanda, Grampy!"

The rest of the Petersens came into the living room in time for Lawrence's response. "I say! Why, so you are!" This prompted hugs and kisses as if they hadn't seen each other in years, even though they'd all been at the Flynn-Fletcher house just last Sunday. Next came a general crush of hugging and baby-passing as Grampy Lawrence exclaimed, "There's my favorite defensive midfielder!" and took possession of Fred. Grammy Linda was juggling a couple of food containers as she got her arms around the rest of them in turn, and Candace relieved her of her burden.

Once her hands were free, Linda went straight for the baby. "Come here, Cuddlebug," she said sweetly, and Lawrence wisely surrendered Fred to her.

"So," Grampy addressed Amanda again, "I suppose you'll tell me you're starting high school next week."

"Noooo," Amanda laughed. "First grade."

Linda asked, "Are you ready for your new school, honey?"

"Uh-huh! It's a _magnet_ school," the first-grader informed them proudly. Candace still suspected her daughter was going to be surprised when the school wasn't filled with metal objects sticking to each other. "Gracie's going there, too. We're in the same class."

"Well, isn't that lucky," said Lawrence.

"I know." Ambrose replied to this with a grin. "What are the odds?"

 _Pretty good when you have friends at City Hall_ , thought Candace. Her husband had never admitted to it, but she was fairly certain that he'd been discussing the move at work and the Mayor had pulled some strings to keep the girls together. The odds of Amanda and her best friend both winning the lottery to attend Danville's most coveted elementary school were too high to make it a coincidence.

"Ready for the nickel tour?" Ambrose now invited, with a gesture that generally encompassed the whole cottage. "We've just moved in, of course; still some sprucing up to do."

"Not at all," Lawrence assured him graciously. "It's delightful."

"It's in the English style," Ambrose cited the realtor's description proudly.

"Is it really?" said Lawrence pleasantly. "Jolly good." He nodded with approval, but Candace could guess from the hint of puzzlement in his expression that this was an English style with which he was unfamiliar.

Amanda had been hovering at her mother's elbow, craning to see what was in the containers Candace was still holding. "Grammy, what did you bring us?" she asked eagerly.

"Doonkelberry pies," said Linda. "I made two because I know they're _someone's_ favorite," she cast a teasing look in Ambrose's direction.

"Well, they are kind of addictive," he replied, with an awkward chuckle and a self-conscious blush. He'd become quite the doonkelberry fiend this year, Candace knew, although she'd have thought he'd be sick of the things, considering how much the Doonkenol power project dominated his work at City Hall. It was probably a good thing Mom had brought two, because Candace knew from experience that Ambrose would end up sneaking hunks of the pie to Trixie under the table.

Amanda was on tiptoe trying to see through the clear plastic lid of the top pie plate. "Are the little blue men coming?"

"What little blue men are those?" Lawrence asked, happily playing along. Candace could have told him, they were Amanda's newest imaginary friends she'd dreamt up from who knew where, sometime earlier this summer.

"They're little blue men who wear leaves and live in the ground. They eat lots and lots of doonkelberries," the girl explained. "They _love_ doonkelberries. Nomnomnomnom," she pantomimed scarfing down piles of invisible fruit. "Are they coming for pie?"

She directed this question to her father, who chuckled and said, "Not today, Manda Panda." He gave Candace a wink.

"Should we save some for them?" Amanda asked him.

"Oh, I'll bet they have enough pie already," he assured her. "Here, honey," he reached out to take the pies from Candace and summoned Amanda, "Why don't you come help me with these?"

"Come on, Grampy," she reached for Lawrence's hand. "You can see our kitchen."

"You know," said Grampy as she led him from the room, "I think those little blue men of yours might be pygmy Ornithorincans."

"What are Ortho-reecans?" asked Amanda, as Candace and Linda watched them head through the dining room toward the kitchen. "Do they like doonkelberries?"

Candace and her mother exchanged a look of sympathetic amusement as Lawrence launched into an anthropoligical lecture, his voice fading as they walked away. "Little blue men?" Linda chuckled. She spoke to the baby, but cast a teasing, sidelong peek at Candace as she said, "Well, Fred, I think we know where your sister gets her imagination."

Candace gave a good humored roll of her eyes at this dig, but before she said anything, Fred began to fuss and squirm and reached out toward her. "Come here, sweet-patootie," Candace took him back from her mother and cuddled him soothingly. "I think someone's getting tired." She sat down in the rocking recliner and got the baby situated comfortably, crooning softly to him.

Linda took a seat on the sofa and smiled, watching her daughter and grandson. "You've really got this mom thing down," she said.

"I learned from the best," Candace smiled back at her. She cooed and hummed to her baby boy as he began to relax and let his eyelids droop.

Linda spoke quietly. "Are you still taking off the rest of the year?"

"Mm-hm," Candace answered, also keeping her voice down. "At least. Honestly, I'd love to stay home until Fred's about two. I've got the rest of my life to do TV news; I'd like to be a full-time Mom for a while."

"What does Ambrose think about that?"

"Oh, he's all for it. You know, Amanda wasn't three months old when I went back to school. I'm still a little sorry I didn't wait longer with her. Now I can have more time for her, too. And Ambrose says we'll be fine with me not working for a while. Actually," Candace confided, "I think he was a little unsure at first, with the new house and all. But then the Mayor gave him a big talk about how much _his_ mother loved him and was always there for him, and how he wouldn't be where he is today without her. She passed away a couple of years ago," Candace explained of Mrs. Doofenshmirtz. "Apparently the Mayor says there's nothing more important to a boy than his mother's devotion." She looked at her dozing infant. "I think Ambrose is convinced we've got a future President here."

"Well, you know he'd have my vote," Fred's Grammy replied fondly.

"Yeah," Candace smiled. "Mine, too."

THE END

 **A/N – I've always loved the line from "It's No Picnic" about Ferb: "It's not what he says, it's how he doesn't say it," and I loved the excuse to use it here. And I hope you noticed the lines lifted from "Across the 2** **nd** **Dimension."**

 **YOUR NEXT MISSION is to go read my story "Dinner Date." I didn't want to move it, but it really belongs next in this sequence, and it's important to next week's new installment.**


	5. You Say You Want a Revolution

**A/N – OK, stop right here – if you have not read "Dinner Date," I mean it, you really need to go do that right now. Just trust me.**

You Say You Want a Revolution

Ambrose Petersen parked his car on the side of the stretch of drive leading up to the Danville Doonkenol Power Plant. The sun had just gone down and the electric lights on their tall poles illuminated the clean, modern shape of the building and the forbidding metal fence that surrounded it. The identifying signage depicted smiling cartoonish doonkelberries with arms and legs and eyes, gamboling in an idyllic sunshiny flowery meadow, but the locked gates were emblazoned with warnings about high voltage and security cameras and threats of prison and hefty fines for trespassers. Ambrose wasn't planning to go any nearer the plant, however. He could do what he'd come to do from outside the fence.

Getting out of the car, he opened the trunk and took out a bushel of doonkelberries. He'd driven all the way out to Badgertown to buy them this time. The first time he'd tried to carry out this plan, he'd gone to the Super Food Stuff Mart and had run into his mother-in-law, of all people. Linda had asked him why he was buying so many cartons of doonkelberries, and he'd blurted out something about how much he'd come to love the fruit, and the next thing he knew, she'd said something to Candace and both the Flynn women were stuffing him with doonkelberry pie and doonkelberry ice cream and peanut butter and doonkelberry jam sandwiches. Luckily he didn't actually _dis_ like the fruit, but honestly, a few doonkelberries went a long way in his opinion. Candace had caught him more than once sneaking hunks of the pies and sandwiches under the table to Trixie, but she thought he spoiled the dog anyway, so her suspicions had not been aroused.

Now he lugged the basket of fruit along the fence line. Within the silver chain link the power station grounds were planted with doonkelberries to supply the raw material for the Doonkenol that burned in place of coal to power the works. Ambrose had not been wrong about the strange things he'd seen here before; decimated swaths scarred the field of doonkelberry plants, and sitting on the edge of a hole in the middle of a bare patch of land were two small blue figures. Mayor Doofenshmirtz had told him the Badinkadinks were not a problem, but Ambrose wasn't convinced. Even if there were only a few of them, they could still lay waste to the groundbreaking Doonkenol Energy Project. Well, if they wanted doonkelberries, he had brought them a feast. And maybe if they ate these, they would leave the plants alone.

Setting the bushel basket on the ground, Ambrose took up handfuls of the doonkelberries and began chucking them over the fence. It was absurd, of course, he told himself. He could imagine Candace folding her arms and giving him that scolding look that said, _You really didn't think this through, did you?_ He should have talked to her, but the Mayor didn't want anyone to know about the Badinkadinks. He should have talked to the Mayor, but the man would have pooh-poohed the idea and told him not to worry. A bushel of doonkelberries from the supermarket wasn't going to stop the indigenous creatures from eating the plants, as well, and this bushel of fruit would hold them only so long, then he would need another, and another… Maybe he really hadn't thought this through. Still, he kept flinging berries over the fence in a sort of desperate futility. And at last, the two little blue men stood up and walked toward him. He hadn't seen one of these things at such close range before. They had red crests, like Mohawks, on the tops of their heads and they wore skirts made of leaves, and as they approached he could hear them uttering what sounded like _badinkadink badinkadink_.

When they reached the fence, the taller one said, with what he could have sworn was a British accent, "Hello, there."

"Can we help you?" asked the shorter one, in the bland tone of a receptionist.

"Um, no." Ambrose had no idea what to make of this. "I'm here to help you."

"What's all this then?" The tall one picked up a handful of the soft fruit that had splattered on the ground.

"Doonkelberries," Ambrose smiled in what he hoped was a kind and compassionate way.

The short one scooped up another handful of fruit from the ground and took a big bite. "Hm. Not as good as fresh," he mumbled to his companion.

The tall one tasted his handful and made a critical face that gave him the air of a gourmand. "Oh, dear."

The blue men turned their backs and moved a few feet away from the fence. Their muttered conversation sounded again like _badinkadink badinkadink_ , and both cast sidelong glances over their shoulders at Ambrose. Part of him thought this might be a wise time to make an escape, but the other part reasoned that he was much bigger than they were, and besides, there was a fence between them. When the two creatures came back toward him, the small one said, in an exaggerated voice, as if speaking to someone who couldn't understand English, "We don't need those." He pointed at the store-bought doonkelberries and slowly shook his head. "We have these." Arms spread, he gestured around at the field, nodding his head. With a smile of civility, he enunciated, "Thank you."

"That's the point," Ambrose tried to reason with them, also speaking more deliberately. "Those," he pointed around at the plants in the field, "are for making power. Not for you."

The tall one, with that completely inappropriate British accent and a blithely unconcerned manner that reminded him of Lawrence, said, "Oh, no, Roger Doofenshmirtz gave us these."

"Roger Doofenshmirtz is our friend," put in the short one.

"No, no," Ambrose couldn't believe he was arguing with these fellows. "We need these for making Doonkenol. To make electricity – you see, electricity is…" Ambrose tried to remember his high school lessons about electrons and ions, "well, it goes through wires, and it makes light and…"

"Yes, yes, we know what electricity is," said the short one with an offended air.

 _All right, skip the science lesson_. "Look," said Ambrose, "the point is, you're only here because Mayor Doofenshmirtz didn't want to move you off your land." When the little blue men exchanged a puzzled look, he added, in that over-enunciated, gesticulating manner, "You – come from – here."

"Oh, no, we're from the Billy Bonka Candy Factory," explained the short one. "I was in taffy."

"I was in toffee," said the tall one. Ambrose looked between them with his own confusion and the British-voiced one said soothingly, "You wouldn't know. The candy factory closed decades ago."

Before he could formulate a question to sort out these surprises, the bright beam of a flashlight struck him full in the face. Ambrose raised a hand to fend off its glare, and made out a shadowy creature moving toward him at a good clip. Its figure was awkwardly hunched, its clothes dark and unspecific, and when it came close enough for him to distinguish a face, he thought for a moment that he was looking at a giant, ambulatory bat. When it redirected the beam of light away from his eyes, however, he saw that it was a man – a man with odd, bat-like features, a pair of enormous pointed ears, and a smile that revealed an unsettling pair of fangs.

"Sorry about that," he addressed Ambrose in a nasal voice. "Roger said that was you out here. What's going on?"

The bat-guy said this in such a friendly, neighbors-over-the-fence way, Ambrose was at a loss to respond with anything more intelligent than, "I brought doonkelberries." As an afterthought, he pointed at the bushel basket still at his feet.

"Yeah, you'd better bring that with you," advised bat-guy.

He and the Badinkadinks had acknowledged each other's presence with an offhand cordiality and now the taller blue fellow said to Ambrose, "We'll be getting back now," and the pair of them said good night to bat-guy and ambled off through the doonkelberry patch, muttering their _badinkadink badinkadink_ sound.

"Come on," bat-guy beckoned with his flashlight. "I'll let you in the gate."

Ambrose stood where he was. "I'm sorry – _Who_ are you?"

"Narthelliot Doofenshmirtz," he answered, as if apologizing for not having mentioned this earlier. "I'm Roger's cousin. He said for you to come in," Narthelliot encouraged him when Ambrose hesitated. "Uhh, doonkelberries," he reminded, when Ambrose started to abandon the bushel of fruit. Hoisting the basket, Ambrose met the strange man at the gate and was admitted to the grounds of the power plant.

"You work here?" he asked.

"I keep an eye on things. It mostly runs itself – but you know that already, you wrote the press release. What's with the doonkelberries?"

"I thought the…" he gestured back in the direction of where he'd been conversing with the little blue men and gave up. "Never mind."

"Roger said you probably brought them for the Badinkadinks so they'd stop eating the ones here. I said that was crazy." He grinned a bit as those weird eyes gave Ambrose a sidelong glance.

"Yeah, pretty crazy," he chuckled sheepishly.

"But true," deduced the bat-guy. They entered the power plant building. Ambrose had been inside it only once, on the day of the ribbon cutting. Purple painted pipes snaked around the walls and ceiling, and three big, silver tanks made a chorus of bubbling, churning, steaming sounds. They passed the tanks and walked through an unassuming door into a small, cinderblock cell. In the wall to their right was a steel door marked with "Danger" and "High Voltage" and "Authorized Personnel Only" signs. Directly across from where they came in was the plain brown door to a janitorial closet. Narthelliot pressed a sequence of buttons on the keypad beside the "Danger" door and half a dozen camera lenses popped out of the walls and ceiling and floor. After a good scan of the room, they retracted, and the door unbolted with a thunk and slid open.

"Here we are," said Narthelliot.

'Here' was a sparsely furnished office. Ambrose had taken no more than a quick glance around, but nothing appeared particularly dangerous. Roger Doofenshmirtz was standing in front of the desk and came to shake his hand and clap him on the shoulder. "Ambrose, I'm actually glad you stopped by. I could use your input."

This sentence was punctuated by a _meow_ and Ambrose realized they had company: a large, long-haired gray cat with white paws. The Mayor's cat was a familiar presence around City Hall, and Ambrose wasn't entirely surprised to see it here, as well. It head-butted the Mayor's arm, and he picked it up. The cat vocalized again and Roger snuggled it and said in a sappy voice that reminded Ambrose of his wife's baby talk, "Yes, Bootsie, you want Daddy's attention." Narthelliot shut the steel door behind them and Roger eyed the basket Ambrose was still holding. "Feeding the Badinkadinks, I see," he noted, with a small, patronizing smile. "You really shouldn't."

"But, sir," Ambrose was still unconvinced, "they're eating all the…"

"Tsk tsk tsk," Roger admonished him gently. "They're not harming anything. Simply fulfilling their purpose. One of those 'circle of life' kind of things. Amusing little fellows."

He motioned for Ambrose to set down his burden and take a seat, while he walked back around the desk to his own chair, still holding the cat. Narthelliot took a handful of berries from the basket with a half-smile and an appealing, "Do you mind?" and went to lean against the door and enjoy his snack.

"Sir," Ambrose really felt the man was too trusting of the strange little creatures, "I was talking with them out there and – well, they said some things I didn't understand. About working in a candy factory?"

Roger sighed. "You see, it's just as I told you. Any time people have been aware of them, they've been exploited. Forced to toil in menial labor."

"They didn't seem too unhappy about it. And I swear one of them sounded British."

"English as a second language. They've picked it up wherever they could; I'd be surprised if a few don't sound Drusselsteinian. Ambrose," he headed off the next point of debate, "I won't have them disturbed. Whatever we may make of their curious ways, they are entitled to live their lives in peace. And that is not what I'm anxious to discuss with you." With a grim expression, the Mayor confessed, "We have a situation. I'm afraid matters in Drusselstein are getting out of hand."

"What's going on?" This was the first Ambrose had heard of such a thing.

"I'm waiting for a briefing from Minister Guiserblint. That's why I'm here," he indicated the hidden office. "This is a very delicate matter, and we can't be too careful. I'm afraid Drusselstein is in trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Terrible, terrible trouble."

By the door, Narthelliot smirked and tossed in a line of song: "With a capital T and that rhymes with D and that stands for…"

The Mayor shot him a stern look that made the man-bat abruptly shut up and stuff another doonkelberry in his mouth. With a clenched jaw that belied his smooth tone, Roger carried the cat across the room and handed it to his cousin. "Why don't you take Bootsie to find some din-din?"

With a sheepish look and no further remarks, Narthelliot got his arms around the hefty ball of fur and lugged it out of the room. When the steel door was closed behind him, Roger said, "Don't mind him. He's a bit odd. Mother always took an interest in him, and I'm glad to give him some little occupation. As for Drusselstein…" the Mayor sat down again behind the desk. "Our Dooknenol experiment has drawn some unwanted attention. Every country in eastern Europe is trying to replicate the formula. Some of them are not above dispatching spies and saboteurs. There has even been talk of invasion."

"Wow, really? I haven't heard a word of this." Ambrose sat forward attentively.

"Drusselstein is a tiny country. Most people don't even know it exists. I thought Doonkenol could finally put my homeland on the map, and improve life for the good people there. But so far, ail it has done is cause more problems – and not all of them from the outside."

"What do you mean?"

"Queen Baldegunde – you remember her from the New Year's Party," Roger prompted, and Ambrose gave a nod. "When I first met her, she was an innocent little girl. Her parents were gone, Guiserblint was advising her and making sure the people were cared for, and Baldegunde was happy to simply play Princess. Now that she's the Queen, she's become headstrong and power hungry."

This was something Ambrose never would have guessed. "I can't believe it. She was so nice at the party."

"Oh, she's a very charming young lady when she wants to be," Roger warned. "I know, I was as surprised as you are."

This still didn't fit with his memories from the celebration that had kicked off the year. The Queen had seemed almost – _ordinary_. Making such a fuss over Candace, dancing with her 'American brothers,' hugging practically everyone who stumbled into her orbit. "Chief," Ambrose ventured, "it's not that I don't trust you, but – where are you hearing this? Are you sure it's not some misunderstanding?"

Before the Mayor could respond to this, a monitor on the desk chirped, and the man remarked, "Right on time." Motioning for Ambrose to draw his chair nearer, he turned the monitor so they could both view it and said, "You can see for yourself." He launched the video chat, and the face of Minister Guiserblint appeared on the screen. "Good evening, Minister. I've asked Mr. Petersen to join us; I'm sure you remember him."

"Yes, hello," said Guiserblint simply. His face was drawn and he looked uneasy.

"I've been briefing him on our concerns," said the Mayor. "I don't suppose the Queen has changed her stance?"

"I have spoken to her again today. She refuses to believe there is anything to be concerned about."

The Mayor turned to Ambrose and explained, "Those rival countries I mentioned are buying doonkelberries by the ton."

"But our people are not sharing in this good fortune," put in Guiserblint. "The Queen is hoarding all the profits, squandering them on diamond-studded carriages and solid gold lawn gnomes."

"The people don't have enough doonkelberries to feed their children," Roger lamented to his assistant. "I've spoken to the Queen about this myself, as has the Minister." Turning to the man on the screen, he prompted, "Tell Ambrose what she said."

Guiserblint sighed woefully, then swallowed as if there was a lump in his throat, then said, "Perhaps you should tell him."

Roger looked slightly peeved. "I meant, _play him the tape_."

"The tape is in Drusselsteinian only," Guiserblint confessed meekly.

"I thought you had it in English," Roger's tone was brusque, and Guiserblint winced. "Fine, just play it in Drusselsteinian."

Guiserblint fumbled with some device below camera range and the sound of Queen Baldegunde's voice came from a scratchy speaker, declaring in the tone of a royal proclamation, "Lassen sie die Kinder essen Doonkelbeerenkuchen!" Behind her words could be heard the wails of two or three crying infants, then there was a millisecond of what might have become the raised voices of a public mob before the tape abruptly cut off.

With a sigh of his own, Roger intoned, "She said – 'Let them eat doonkelberry pie.'"

"Yes, that is what she said," the Minister promptly concurred.

Ambrose sat back in the chair. "There ought to be something we can do. Why aren't we hearing about this on the news? I'm sure if people knew what was going on…"

"The Queen would silence any such reports," insisted Guiserblint. "She would make everything look happy and say the enemies of Drusselstein were spreading lies."

"Well, aren't there any objective observers who could get involved?" Ambrose pursued options. "Some international league of governments…?"

"Oh, that's the last thing we want!" Guiserblint blurted in alarm.

"Calm yourself, Minister," Roger advised, holding up a hand toward the screen. "Ambrose, I agree, that sounds like a sensible plan. But frankly, any outside power intervening would mean the end of Drusselstein. I've been discussing this situation with Minister Guiserblint and Mr. Zengle and it has made me reflect on how fortunate we are. You and I are accustomed to the freedom we enjoy in this country. I believe Drusselstein would thrive under a free, representative government of the people."

"Yes," nodded Guiserblint, "a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, this is what your President Washington said in his Declaration of Independence."

"Actually, it was Lincoln's Gettysburg Address," Ambrose corrected politely. "And Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration. But you've got the right idea," he added encouragingly.

Roger nodded and smiled, "I couldn't have put it better, myself."

Looking more confident than he had at the start, Guiserblint now added, "Of course, we would have to put an end to the Queen."

Roger stiffened at this comment, and his eyes frowned while his teeth smiled. "Minister, I know you didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Oh, no, no, of course not," the man scrambled to defend his words. "We would never want any harm to befall the Queen! We would – oh, I apologize, my English is so bad – what is it that I wanted to say?" he appealed to the Mayor.

"I think the phrase you're looking for is 'dissolve the monarchy,'" Roger prompted.

"Oh, yes, of course, that is what I meant." The Minister made a sound that resembled a nervous giggle that ended in a cough.

Either way, Ambrose could draw only one conclusion. "You're talking about a revolution."

Roger frowned, regret lining his brow. "Revolution is a strong word. Ambrose, I can assure you, the last thing we want is for anyone to get hurt. But we may be left with no choice. For now, Guiserblint and Zengle are building the framework for what we hope will be a peaceful transition of power. You should know, I've been supporting them, to whatever extent I am able. Our main goal at this point is to keep these troubles quiet, and protect Drusselstein from any outside interference. So far, we've managed to keep a lid on things."

At that moment, there was a strange hum from the bowels of the building that rapidly grew louder, as the lights in the room flickered and flashed, growing brighter, as if from a power surge. " _Doofenshmirtz!"_ demanded Guiserblint from the screen in a tone both angry and frightened, and with one more blinding flare, the lights in the small office went out. With a click of circuitry, an emergency light over the door came on, and the screen, still displaying the face of the Minster, who was now blathering in Drusselsteinian, began beeping to indicate it was on battery backup power. With no further comment, Roger disconnected the video chat and shut off the monitor.

Ambrose's first and only thought was _saboteurs!_ He had just begun to speculate on whether he and the Mayor could escape into the ductwork, and what sort of plan they could form to thwart the intruders, when Roger Doofenshmirtz picked up the handset of the old-fashioned black phone on the desk, pushed one button, and demanded, "Narthelliot, what the dickens is going on!" Ambrose was encouraged to hear that he sounded not the least bit afraid. Just very angry. Narthelliot's reply was inaudible to Ambrose, but Roger upon hearing it barked back, "What do you mean, the cat threw up on it!?"

Only at this point did the young man notice a green glow seeping under the bottom edge of the door.

"Well, hose it off, throw a blanket over it," the Mayor was spouting orders. He slammed down the receiver, muttering a Drusselsteinian word Ambrose was glad he couldn't translate. Ambrose got to his feet as the Mayor strode from behind the desk and opened the steel door. The hum was louder than ever here and the antechamber was awash in green light. He turned back to Ambrose and put a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in and holding him where he was. With one deep breath as if debating whether to proceed, the Mayor said, "Ambrose, I'm trusting you. Not one word of this to _anyone_." He held up a warning finger and looked intently into the younger man's eyes until he had received a confirming nod of the head. "Good man." Roger clapped him on the shoulder and Ambrose followed him out of the room.

He still wasn't sure what was going on as they went through the unassuming door that had appeared to lead to only a broom closet. A second door in the back of the "closet" was open, and beyond this was another small chamber. Through the loud humming sound and the green light that bathed everything, Ambrose made out the hunched shape of Narthelliot holding a bucket of water, Bootsie the cat calmly licking a paw, and a blanket, floating in mid air as stronger beams of the green light shot out from beneath it. Having no idea of what he was looking at, Ambrose asked, "Is it the Doonkenol, sir?"

Roger Doofenshmirtz answered through gritted teeth. "Not exactly."

THE END

 **A/N – I really hope my readers know what it is! (And yes, that's why I insisted you read "Dinner Date" first. The "Rhode Island Fletcher" story relates, too.)**

 **I've had that "the cat threw up on it" gag in my idea bag for so long…**

 **And, ta-da, next "Surprise Series Reference" – in the episode "Face Your Fears," Heinz Doofenshmirtz creates a giant bat, and Vanessa remarks, "It looks like your cousin Narthelliot." Shortly afterward, Doof is carried off by the bat, Vanessa sends Perry after him, then an odd, bat-like man comes up beside her and says, "So, what did I miss?" "Oh, hey, Narthelliot, we were just talking about you," says Vanessa. That's it. One gag about Doof having a cousin who looks like a bat. But, when I needed someone minding the power plant, who also needed to be someone Roger would trust – Cousin Narthelliot got the call. Like the Badinkadinks, he will be back.**

 **And here's where we cut to the chase. Next week's installment will begin a sequence of seven chapters, all taking place on December 31, one year after "On the Edge of an Unspoiled Universe," where all will ultimately be revealed.**


	6. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 1

**A/N – And now to launch the seven-chapter story that will carry us to the end. So far, Ambrose has predominantly held the point of view, but now it's going to get passed around among several other characters. It is New Year's Eve, one year to the day after "On the Edge of an Unspoiled Universe."**

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 1

Melanie Grissel had worked in Danville's City Hall since she was a teenage intern. She had been Roger Doofenshmirtz's administrative assistant since the first day of his first term as Mayor. He might rhapsodize about his late mother, and he might pour flattery on his young Communications Director, but Melanie Grissel knew perfectly well that she was Roger Doofenshmirtz's right arm, security guard and Gal Friday, and he would be lost without her. And she knew that he knew it, too.

It was Melanie who screened the Mayor's calls, deftly fending off the ones he didn't want to deal with. She was becoming an old pro at deflecting the inquiries of Mr. Zengle of the Drusselsteinian Doonkelberry Farmers Association, letting him through just often enough to keep him from stirring up trouble. But as the year had worn on, Zengle had become more persistent. Every other month or so, he had sent representatives of his organization to Danville, ostensibly to "inspect the Doonkenol plant." Each time, they had been paraded around the city, hosted at a civic dinner, given a private tour of the power plant by the Mayor, himself, and sent back to Drusselstein with some token of his favor, a medallion, or a key to the city, or a gold-plated cat figurine. The September "inspection" had gone as usual, but when Zengle's men had returned in November, they had been sent home empty-handed. That was when the calls from Zengle had started becoming more frequent.

Melanie had been present for one of these phone calls, shortly before Christmas, when after two weeks of avoidance Roger Doofenshmirtz had finally huffed, "Fine, Melanie. Put him through." He had exchanged a few pleasantries with Zengle through gritted teeth before the Drusselsteinian apparently came to his point and Roger replied, "I made a very fair deal with you, _too_ fair, if you ask me." Melanie could hear only the Mayor's side of the conversation, but that was enough. "Oh, what have you got to whine about? Every time I see you in 'Jet Setters Weekly,' you're flashing fur coats and gold watches. You're drawing too much attention." … "Don't talk to me, talk to Guiserblint." … "I told him, no more material until I see some results." After the next silence, Roger's voice became smooth and buttery and he gave what sounded like an offhand chuckle, although his face wasn't in on it. "Mr. Zengle, if I didn't know better, I'd think that sounded like a threat." Whatever Zengle's retort to this had been, Roger had frowned, and his voice had gone steely. "You've got your cut. I'm through negotiating. And don't send any more of your DOOFASes over here if you'd like to see them again." And with that, Roger Doofenshmirtz had hung up the phone. Melanie had folded her arms and looked skeptically at her boss. Zengle wasn't as dangerous as he would have liked them to believe, but the idea of the DOOFAS Head as a loose cannon made her uneasy. "Ignore him," the Mayor had reassured her with a smirk. "What is he going to do, call a cop?"

Now it was the morning of December 31, exactly one year since the debut of Doonkenol. City Hall was officially closed for the holiday, but Roger Doofenshmirtz was at his desk, going over his speech for tonight's party, and Melanie was at her desk outside his office. When the notice popped up on her computer screen, signalling an incoming request for a video chat, it surprised her. The call was not entirely unexpected – but it was early.

Roger's door was open, and he had heard the notification sound as well. "If that's Zengle again…" he called out in an irked tone.

Melanie stood in his doorway and said, in a voice only slightly more agitated than her usual tone, "It's Minister Guiserblint, sir."

The annoyance was joined by a look of dread. "What's he doing, calling at this hour? Put him through," the man commanded, then swiftly revised the order. "Wait – lock up first, then put him through and come back in here."

"Yes, sir." Melanie hurried to do his bidding, locking the outer door to her office, clicking at her computer, and retreating to the Mayor's inner office, where she shut and locked that door behind her as well.

The Mayor was sitting in front of his computer screen and muttered, "He had better not be getting cold feet." But in a flash, the beaming mayoral smile was on his face as he opened the chat. Minister Guiserblint, live from his chambers in the Royal Drusselsteinian Palace, was not sitting down; he was hunched over the computer at his end, bracing himself with both hands on the table. Roger managed a genial, "Well, well, Minister, Happy New Year," as if he had no idea that anything could possibly be amiss.

The words weren't even out of his mouth before Guiserblint was blathering in Drusselsteinian. Watching from over the mayor's shoulder, Melanie could see that he was perspiring.

"You look alarmed," Doofenshmirtz was keeping up the appearance of innocence, but not without some effort, and it was through his teeth that he said, "What's the problem?"

Guiserblint blurted out in English, "She's gone! The Queen is gone!"

The blood drained from Roger's face and, all pretense abandoned, he railed, "No, no, no! It's too early! I told you midnight! _My_ midnight!"

"I have done nothing!" Guiserblint screeched back at him defensively. "She's not _dead_ , she's _GONE!_ "

Roger regained enough self-control to blurt out with forced surprise, "Dead? Who said anything about that? I certainly didn't…"

Guiserblint ignored his comment and declared, "She was carried off by an ostrich in a fedora!"

"What does that even mean!?" ranted Mayor Doofenshmirtz.

"Exactly what it sounds like!" Guiserblint was bordering on hysteria. "What do we do!?"

"Well, the first thing we do is… don't panic." Roger was out of his chair, pacing. "We can solve this. The Queen is gone. That's all right." He was talking more to himself than anyone else as he pushed a hand into his neatly coiffed hair. "We don't actually need her, and she doesn't know anything." He looked swiftly to the screen with a sickly glare. "She _doesn't_ know anything, does she?"

"Of course not," said the Minister, then qualified this. "Not enough to cause any trouble."

Clearly this was not the answer Roger wanted to hear. "Where did she go? Where _would_ she go? Never mind," he swiped a dismissive hand at the man's image. "Call Zengle. Tell him to send his DOOFASes after her. He can make himself useful for once."

Melanie still had her cell phone on her, and now it chirped in her pocket. She pulled it out to check the text alert and saw that it was from Zengle. The one word message was enough to make her interrupt in an ominous tone. "Sir…"

Roger frowned as he glanced in her direction, then his eyes focused on the screen she held out to him and he read the warning: GLIB Turning to the computer screen, he ordered, "Forget Zengle. Secure the material. I'll handle our problem." And with that, he cut off the video chat. "Melanie, get me on the next plane to Drusselstein."

This was where she earned her position with him as she pointed out, "She's probably out of the country by now."

"You're right," Roger acknowledged. He pulled up a map of Europe on the computer. "If you were a deposed eastern European queen, where would you go…" he mused, poring over the screen.

 _Where they always go_ , thought Melanie, and calmly opened the door. "I'll get you a ticket to Paris."

"Get Narthelliot on the phone, too," he said. "We'll have to sanitize the site. Oh, Melanie," he lamented, "this would have been so much easier if I could have done everything myself."

She had dialed the mayor's cousin and was listening to the cell phone ring. At length, a voice came on the line to say, "Hi, it's Narthelliot. Leave a message!" She hung up. "He's not answering."

"Try the main line at the plant," said Roger. When there was no answer there either, he took charge of the phone, himself, and dialed the number to his secret office there. "Unbelievable!" He hung up the phone. "Why of all days is he not there when I need him?"

"Well, sir, it is New Year's Eve."

"Yes, Melanie," he retorted sarcastically, "thank you for reminding me. I suppose he's asleep, or drunk, or something," he grumbled.

She didn't take his tone personally, and instead proposed, "Should I run out there?"

"No. I'll go, myself."

"Do you think you should?" she challenged, and he hesitated.

After a few seconds of reflection, Roger whipped out his cell phone and pressed a button. "Ambrose can go. He was downstairs in the ballroom, supervising. I hope he's still here- Ambrose!" he exclaimed brightly when the call was answered. "Are you still here? – Good, good. Come up to my office, I need you. – All right."

It was all Melanie could do to keep from grabbing the phone from him and blurting into it, "Never mind." She eyed her boss disapprovingly. "Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?"

"He'll do fine. All he has to do is get a message to Narthelliot. Top secret spy stuff, he loves that. Get that plane ticket," he instructed. "And use this," he dug in his wallet and handed her a credit card. She read the name on it and regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Roger gave her a look that said _yes,I know, just do it_ , and his secretary went back to her desk to book a seat to Paris.

They were both startled by the sound of the doorknob rattling outside her office. It hadn't occurred to either of them that the door was still locked. Melanie started to get up, but Roger waved her back and went to answer it himself.

"There you are, come in, come in," he drew his assistant into the office and closed the door behind him.

"What's going on?" asked the young man. He tossed in a, "Hi, Melanie," acknowledging the secretary. She replied with a distracted nod.

"Ambrose," Roger put an arm around his shoulders, "I need a favor."

"Absolutely. Name it."

"I need you to go out to the Doonkenol plant and take a message to Narthelliot. He's not answering the phone."

"Really," the young man looked concerned. "I hope he's all right."

"I'm sure he's fine," Roger assured him. "But we've got a situation and I need to get a message to him. Tell him – " he looked thoughtful for a minute, as if mulling over messages, and finally said, "Just tell him it's a Code Blue."

"What does that mean?"

Roger made a "shhh" motion and tapped the side of his nose. "Just tell him Code Blue. He'll know what to do."

The young man responded to this in a suppressed voice, "Is someone after the formula? Or trying to sabotage the plant? Is that what this is about?"

"Now, you didn't hear me say that," Roger deftly seized on this, his manner implying that this was exactly what he was not putting into words. Taking Ambrose by both shoulders, he impressed on his aide, "Just deliver my message."

Ambrose actually saluted him – Melanie had to purse her lips to conceal a smile – and hightailed it out of City Hall. Roger Doofenshmirtz gave his secretary one smug smile as if to say, _I told you so_ , and retreated into his office. Melanie turned her attention back to her computer and made the final click to purchase a one-way plane ticket to Paris in the name on the credit card Roger had handed her. The travel site processed her order and gave her the confirmation. As she moved the mouse to close the website, her eye was caught by the colorful banner at the top of the travel company's page :

~~It's Time to Get Away! Fares to the Caribbean starting at $99!~~

Melanie pondered the inviting photo of a beach hammock under the palm trees. She'd always heard the Caribbean islands were ideal this time of year…

 _To be continued…_

 **A/N – Quick credit: the line, "What is he going to do, call a cop?" is taken from a recurring bit in a movie I love, "Eight Men Out." I've been looking forward to letting Roger use it.**


	7. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 2

**A/N – This may be the only piece in the entire P &F Fanfic World written from the point of view of Doof's Cousin Narthelliot Who Looks Like a Giant Bat. And I hope we all remember Grulinda Boubenweir from the episode "Imperfect Storm," the "mean little girl" from Doof's childhood who grew up to be beautiful and actually liked him – for about two minutes. (And yes, that's her last name; it's briefly on screen in the episode.)**

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 2

Narthelliot Doofenshmirtz was combing the tuft of brown hair on the top of his head. The new shampoo he'd bought from the SuperDuper Mega Store was supposed to make it look thicker and fuller, but he didn't think it was working. Maybe some gel would help.

The bat-like man wasn't usually this fussy about his appearance. But it was New Year's Eve, and he had a lot of getting ready to do to make himself presentable for the Mayor's annual bash at City Hall. More often than not, he skipped the formal affair, or dropped in just long enough to say hello to his cousin before hightailing it to some hip basement club to hang with his fellow Creatures of the Night. But this year was different. He'd run into Grulinda Boubenweir a couple of days ago, and she had stopped to chat with him for a minute. Seems she'd just broken up with her fourth – or was it fifth? – boyfriend in the last dozen years – well, the fifth he knew about – anyway, she had broken up with the firefighter and was on the market again. And she'd been pretty friendly when they talked, and had mentioned that she would be at the New Year's party, and he had said he'd probably be there, too, and she had suggested they might see each other and he had said he would save a dance for her, and she had actually seemed pleased by the prospect – well, at least, she hadn't laughed at him – and Narthelliot was thinking he might have a chance with her.

If he could just get his hair to cooperate.

He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist, still damp from the shower, when the gate alarm went off. Sometimes he was sorry Cousin Roger had convinced him to live in the little apartment hidden in the depths of the Doonkenol plant. Oh, it had its advantages; the rent was free, and he never had to deal with commuting to his work. But it also meant he was on site and on call pretty much all the time. Then again, the plant was his Baby. Roger might have been the idea man, but he needed Narthelliot to make this whole setup work. All things considered, he would have expected Roger to enlist his brother's help with this project – Heinz was the real brains of the family, and knew his way around this kind of thing. But Narthelliot knew, Heinz still nursed all sorts of petty grudges against his younger brother – and besides, he probably would have installed a self destruct button and blown the whole place to kingdom come by now.

The yellow alarm light was flashing above the bathroom door, and Narthelliot hit the button on the monitor below it to pull up the surveillance camera. _Ugh_ was his reaction to the sight of a familiar minivan pulling up the driveway into the grounds. What was _he_ doing here?

Tossing aside his towel, he scurried into the bedroom and started grabbing clothes. Now the main entrance buzzer was sounding and the indicator lights throughout the apartment were flashing red. Pulling a gray sweater over his head, Narthelliot switched on the two-way video intercom and said, with a friendliness he hoped didn't sound too fake, "Hey, Petersen, what's going on?"

"Are you here?" was the response, and Narthelliot had to fight the urge to reply _Duhr._ "The Mayor's been trying to call you," said Petersen. "He sent me out here with a message."

"All right," he activated the remote door locks and let him into the building. "Stay there, I'll be out." He quickly finished dressing and met Ambrose inside the main entrance of the plant. "What's this big message?"

"Something's going on," said Ambrose. "The Mayor said to tell you it's a Code Blue."

 _Are you serious?_ Narthelliot ejected a Drusselsteinian word he hoped Ambrose didn't know, and put a hand to his head. Of all times. Turning a tight circle to get his mental gears moving, he heard the other fellow ask, "What does that mean?"

"Company's coming," Narthelliot responsed distractedly, then stopped and looked directly at Ambrose. "Are you sure he said Code Blue? Not – not Code Puce, or Code Beige or something?"

Ambrose shook his head, "Definitely Blue. What do we do?"

" _We_ don't do anything," he held out a finger to signal the younger man to stay where he was. Patting his clothes, he fumbled for pockets. Why could he never find his phone when he needed it? " _You_ – " pointing at him, "– just stand there. Don't touch anything."

Narthelliot grumbled to himself as he disappeared back into the bowels of the plant. Cousin Roger obviously trusted the kid, at least enough to send him out here, but Narthelliot was not going to start answering questions now. Anything Petersen didn't already know, he didn't need to know. He located the cell and fired a quick text to his cousin: WTS? A few seconds later, just as he was wondering if he should have spelled out 'What's the situation?', the Mayor texted back: GLIB.

Another curse came out of him. Oh, great. This wasn't a Code Blue, it was a Code Sapphire. And it was going to definitely take some thought, which he chewed over as he went back to where Petersen was waiting.

"We need a bushel of doonkelberries. Come on." Narthelliot headed for the door.

"Why do we need—?"

 _Ugh, more questions!?_ "Look, you trust the Mayor, right?"

He waited for Ambrose to nod and say, "Absolutely."

"Well, he put me in charge out here, and you're going to help me. Let's go."

The doonkelberry field had been enclosed by a greenhouse structure to keep it growing through the Tri-State Area winter. The muffled sounds of _"Badinkadink Badinkadink"_ came from deep within the holes scattered throughout the field. Narthelliot winced. He hadn't even thought about this problem. Petersen had obviously heard the voices of the little blue men, as well, because he looked at Narthelliot with concern. "What about them?"

"First things first," said Narthelliot. He and Petersen worked as quickly as they could, piling doonkelberries into a basket, which they lugged back into the plant, through one door after another until they were at the core of the power system. Narthelliot hesitated at the last door, but Petersen had been there the night Bootsie had triggered that crazy reaction at the power core, and he'd seen everything then, so there was really no further harm to be done. Into the chamber they went, and set down the bushel basket.

"Okay," Narthelliot stood and looked for a minute at the glowing green stone that sat in a shallow dish of bubbling purple liquid. He really didn't like having to move the thing. Maybe they could just pile the doonkelberries on and around it. They really needed a container of some sort, though, or the fruit would just go everywhere. He glanced at Ambrose, who was watching him with an intently concerned look, and proposed, "How strong are you?" Before the young man answered, he explained, "I need you to pick that up."

"The catalyst?"

Oh, yeah, that's what Roger had told the kid it was. "Yeah, the catalyst. No, not yet, wait a minute!" he called a halt when Ambrose reached for the thing. "We've got to have a plan." The stone might have been no bigger than a grapefruit, but it was _heavy_. "When I say go, you're going to lift the – catalyst. Don't let any wires come unhooked," he warned. "I'm going to put the basket under it, and we're going to shove it down into the doonkelberries."

Ambrose's eyes went wide. "Won't that cause an explosion?"

"What are you talking about?" Narthelliot frowned at this unexpected question.

"Dumping the catalyst into a basket of doonkelberries," explained Petersen, in an exasperated, 'you're not listening' voice. "You'll blow the whole place up. Or is that the plan?"

"Nothing's blowing up," he fumed. Wow, Petersen really _didn't_ know anything. "Look, trust me, I built this. Just pick up the stone. And watch out, it's heavy."

Ambrose confirmed this with a surprised grunt as he hefted the green rock. Narthelliot got the basket in place and said, "Okay, let it go."

"You're sure it won't…?"

"Drop it!" he snapped, and Ambrose let go. The green mineral sank like – well, like a stone, crushing and displacing the purple fruit. Narthelliot plunged both hands into the container and smeared crushed berries over the thing, trusting that this would help camouflage it. Well, there, that might buy a few minutes. Observing the purple ooze on his hands, however, reminded him of that other undone chore and he grimaced in displeasure. "I suppose Roger expects me to do something about the Badinkadinks, too."

"Don't worry," said Ambrose confidently. "I've got that." Narthelliot raised an eyebrow at the young man's words, but Ambrose responded to his curious look with a grim hint of a smile. "Don't ask. It's probably safer if you don't know what I'm planning."

Narthelliot was taken aback by Petersen's cool demeanor. Wow, he really was hard core. Who knew? "You – you sure you don't need me for that?" He bared his fangs in what he hoped was an appealing smile.

Ambrose shook his head. "I know what to do."

"Yeah, well," Narthelliot put in, glad to hand the dirty work to someone else, but still feeling uneasy, "you'd better make sure no one finds them. Not that you don't already know that," he hastened to add, lest he end up sleeping with the doonkelberries as well.

"How many are there, anyway?" asked Ambrose. "I want to be sure I get them all."

"Seven. Like the seven dwarfs," he chuckled slightly then choked on the sound. "Um, so, I'm just going to get out of your way…"

"Good idea," said Petersen.

With no further comment, Narthelliot walked the other man out the front entrance then quickly retreated inside. Once the door was locked up tight, the bat-like man scurried back into the depths of the plant to carry out the rest of his security measures. First, though, he found a set of earbuds and popped them in, cranking up the tunes from his phone. He didn't even care what he was listening to, but it sounded like some Scraping Fangs song Cousin Vanessa had downloaded for him. Whatever it was, it would definitely drown out the screams. Yeah, it was too bad about the Badinkadinks. He'd really gotten used to the little guys. But in the end, they were a textbook example of why it was dangerous to know too much.

 _To Be Continued…_


	8. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 3

**A/N – A brief disclaimer about what I'll call "the cell phone thing": I know that when a call goes to voice mail on a cell phone, logically the person being called can't hear the message being left – but I needed it to work that way (like screening calls on an answering machine) both here and in a later chapter, so that's how it works.**

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Chapter 3

Candace Petersen was pacing around the little brick cottage on Crestview Drive. It was past sunset. The clouds had moved in late in the day and that smell of impending snowfall had been in the air when she had last ventured outside. She was completely alone in the house. Normally, the peace and quiet would have been refreshing, but tonight it was just spooky.

It was New Year's Eve, and she felt like the last person left on Earth. This year's New Year's party was going to be much quieter than last year's – certainly for her, and not just because there were no surprise guests coming from Drusselstein tonight. Dad had sprained an ankle on his icy front steps and was laid up, so he and Mom were skipping the party this year. Not that they minded – Mom had jumped at the chance to keep Amanda and Fred (and even Trixie) for the night. Phineas and Isabella were in California, where he was talking to some tech company about a new invention and helping them trick out their world-class global New Year's light display. Ferb and Vanessa were staying in Ackerton for the unofficial bash at ASU; he and some friends had formed a band called The Underwater Welders and were one of several campus groups playing a set or two at the party. Tonight should have been a welcome romantic evening for Candace and her husband. But Ambrose had been at work all day. She had gotten a couple of brief texts from him that didn't really say anything except that he was taking care of some things for the Mayor and would be home in time to pick her up for the party. Now here she was, all dressed up and ready to go, and even though she supposed it wasn't really all that late yet, she was still waiting for Ambrose. Her last text had never been answered, and her last two phone calls had gone to voice mail. She had even rung the couple of office numbers she had for City Hall and had gotten nowhere.

Candace would have been the first to admit she was a worrier, and yes, she was a little concerned. But she was mostly exasperated. Frustrated. Irked. Pick a word. She was glad her husband liked his job, but through the course of his first year at City Hall, it seemed he spent more and more time there. Oh, he was generally around when she needed him. He never missed Amanda's dance recitals or parent/teacher conferences. He changed Fred's diapers and cleaned up his mishaps like a trouper. But he was "on call" as much as any surgeon or firefighter, and if Roger Doofenshmirtz said "jump," his immediate answer was, "Just say how high, sir." He was probably still at City Hall right now, rewriting the Mayor's speech for the tenth time and completely oblivious to the hour.

She was roaming through the house again, tidying up, checking the contents of her evening bag, making sure the back door was locked, anything to eat up some time and keep her distracted. Glancing into the nursery, she felt a funny little twinge of sadness at seeing the crib empty. Mom and the kids were probably having a ball. Maybe she should have just let Ambrose work the party and gone to her parents' house with them. Candace spotted an out-of-place obejct on the floor, halfway under the changing table. "Oh, poor Mister Snuggles!" she said out loud, picking up the bedraggled blue plush cat. The toy had taken so much abuse from both Fred and Trixie, it was a wonder he was still in one piece. The Mayor had brought Mister Snuggles for baby Fred when Ambrose had invited him to see their new house. Candace had to admit, she could see why her husband thought so highly of the man; Roger Doofenshmirtz had been very gracious when the visit hadn't gone so well. Fred, who had been such an easy-going baby even at just a few weeks old, had cried when the Mayor shook his hand and refused to even consider being held by the man. Trixie, who had long since overcome her skittishness around strangers, had responded to his gentle approach by growling at him and sinking her teeth into his trouser cuff. Ambrose had been mortified by this behavior, but the Mayor had been a good sport about it, remarking with a chuckle, "She probably smells my cat." Candace had not noticed it before then, and luckily the dog had not yet run afoul of an actual feline, but apparently Trixie had some innate canine hatred of cats. Even poor, harmless Mister Snuggles, sighed Candace, placing the stuffed toy back in the crib.

Candace heard a car pull up in the street and immediately thought, _It's about time_. Ambrose was really cutting it close if he expected to clean up and get into his tuxedo. But before she was halfway to the front door, the bell rang. _Seriously? How did he manage to lock himself out?_ She was fully prepared to remark on this to him, but when she opened the door, she was surprised – and suddenly alarmed – to see a police cruiser parked out front, and two men on the stoop, neither one of them her husband.

The one in uniform was familiar to her: Officer Baehr – "Smokey," they'd always called him in the newsroom. Candace had interviewed him more than once. The other man, she had never seen before. He had sandy hair and a narrow face, and he was dressed in a tweed coat and deerstalker hat, like some theatrical touring company Sherlock Holmes. Alarmed, Candace abandoned any niceties and simply blurted, "What's going on?"

"Mrs. Petersen?" asked the Holmesian fellow crisply. He even sounded British.

Looking between them, Candace appealed to the policeman, "Smokey, what's wrong? Has something happened?"

"Don't worry, Candace," Officer Baehr assured her. "Nothing's happened. We just need to talk to Ambrose for a minute. Is he around?"

She was surprised by the gust of relief that took the wind out of her. At least they weren't there to tell her he'd been in an accident. He was still out there somewhere, however, and apparently she wasn't the only one looking for him. "He – he's not here," she stammered. "Why?" She was looking at the British chap, whose attention was on some communication device in his hand, and asked Smokey, "Who's this?"

"This is Agent 22," said the officer.

The Brit gave her an offhand smile and flipped out a badge. "Agent _Double 2_ , actually," he corrected. "GLIB. May we?"

It was starting to flurry outside, and Candace responded to the man's gesture by stepping back and allowing them into the house.

"Lovely gown, by the way," Agent Double 2 complimented her. "Pity the party's off."

Her initial panic at the sight of them was giving way to the already-established annoyance and she said, "All right, _who_ are you? And _what_ is this about?!"

Smokey was still downplaying the intrusion. "Oh, it's just some big misunderstanding. GLIB nabbed some doofus in Drusselstein who started spinning stories, it's crazy. I told him Ambrose would clear it right up."

"You're certain he's not here?" Double 2 prompted civilly.

"He's probably at City Hall," said Candace, "or…" His earlier words finally caught up to her and she suddenly asked, "What do you mean, the party's off?"

"He didn't tell you?" quizzed the Agent.

"Tell me _what?_ " Candace clenched her fists and exclaimed, "Nobody's telling me anything!" She addressed the policeman, "You and Agent 22 here just show up on my doorstep…"

"Double 2," the chap corrected mildly.

" _Double_ 2," Candace snapped back, then demanded, "What does that even mean? It's just 22! What's glib about that?"

Unruffled, the agent clarified, "Global League of Investigative Bureaus." When she still regarded him in confusion, he explained, "GLIB. It's a cool acronym."

"Look, Candace," Baehr coaxed, "if you have any idea where we can find Ambrose…"

She took a breath, then said, "Did you try the power plant?"

Double 2 said, "Double 7 is there now. No sign of him so far."

She felt Smokey gently take hold of her elbow and he said, "Come on, maybe you should sit down. Can I get you a glass of water or something?"

"No," she brushed him away but lowered herself to the couch. "I'm all right." If by all right you meant slightly weak and a little dizzy. The fear and frustration had exhausted each other for the moment and left her with nothing but uncertainty. Why were global agents looking for her husband? And why wasn't he answering her calls?

The Agent perched beside her on the edge of the couch. "Mrs. Petersen, when was the last time you heard from him?"

The British man didn't sound quite like Ferb, or Dad, but there was a calming tone in his voice and his manner that reminded her of them and had a settling influence on her. "Three o'clock, maybe. He texted me. It's on my phone." She looked around for her evening bag. "I must have left it in the nursery."

"That's all right," Baehr stopped her when she moved to get up.

"I've left a couple of voice mails since then," she told the men. "He hasn't called back. You're sure something hasn't happened to him?"

Double 2 looked reticent, but Smokey insisted, "We would have heard about it."

The communicator in the GLIB Agent's pocket buzzed, and he pulled it out. When he saw who it was, he said, "Excuse me, please," and walked a few steps from the couch to take the call. Baehr started to talk to her again, but she waved him to silence. Double 2 did not try to conceal his conversation; in fact, he glanced in their direction and murmured, "Double 7 has secured the plant. No sign of Mr. Petersen." Returning his attention to the phone, he listened to his colleague then emitted a dry chuckle. "They did _what_ with the material? – Well, points for creativity, I suppose. – Oh, the doonkelberries won't hurt it, just wipe them off. – Well, we can't disconnect it, we'll black out the entire Tri-State Area. Better call Professor M, he'll know what to do. – All right, keep in touch." Shutting off the communicator, he returned to them and addressed Candace. "If your husband has told you anything about what's going on at the power plant, now would be a very good time to tell us."

His tone was still polite, but with a firmness that put her on the defensive. "What do you mean, what's going on? They're making Doonkenol, I don't know how they do it. Neither does Ambrose. He just writes press releases. Why aren't you talking to the Mayor about this?"

Double 2 did not answer this, but instead pressed, "That's really all he's told you? 'Oh, it's all the mysterious Doonkenol'?"

"He didn't _tell_ me, that's what it is. Everyone knows about it, it was all over the news. If you're looking for the formula," she countered his tone, "you'd better talk to the Drusselsteinians, they're the ones making some big secret of it."

The GLIB communicator chirped this time and Double 2 glanced at the screen. "Well, well," he noted, "it appears Double 4 has grabbed Grissel in Grenada." He held out the device so Candace could see what was on the screen: a mug shot of the Mayor's secretary dressed for a beach resort. "Your husband had better start singing, Mrs. Petersen. Before all the other little birds do."

Officer Baehr had slipped out of the room during this conversation and now came back with Candace's cell phone in his hand. "Maybe you should try calling him again."

"I don't know why you think he has anything to 'sing' about," she gave the GLIB agent a frown as she dialed Ambrose's number. Again, it went to his voice mail, and this time she said, "Ambrose, if you're there, answer the phone! It's an emergency!" To her surprise, in a couple of seconds he picked up.

"Candace, this isn't a good time…" He sounded frazzled, and she could hear a chorus of odd little voices loudly singing, "Three hundred and sixty bushels of doonkelberries on the wall, three hundred and sixty bushels of doonkelberries, take one down and pass it around…"

It did not sound like the radio.

"Guys," Ambrose's attempt to cover the phone wasn't enough to muffle his voice, "would you pipe down? I'm on the phone!"

"Ambrose, who is that?" Candace demanded. "Where are you?"

"I don't know," he groaned. "I missed the exit to Lake Nose and the GPS has me going in circles." The singing had stopped, but she could still hear the voices muttering in the background. It sounded like _badinkadink badinkadink_.

"What are you doing at Lake Nose?"

Agent Double 2 started tapping at the screen of his communicator upon hearing of this location.

Ambrose's flustered answer was, "Look, don't worry, everything's fine. I'm just going to be late."

"Ambrose…!" That exasperated growl was coming into her tone.

One of the weird voices was audible in the background. "Ooooh, pretty lights! Look, look!" There was a chorus of "ooh!"s and "look!"s and then she caught the sound of a high-pitched wail.

"Is that a siren!?" she demanded.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding!" Ambrose exclaimed. "Guys," his voice moved away from the phone, "get down. No, stop waving! Candace, I have to go." The siren grew louder just before the call ended.

Double 2 was putting through a call of his own by now and asked Candace, "What is he driving?"

She was on her feet, gawking at her cell phone in astonishment. "What was that even about!? WHAT IS GOING ON!? WHO WAS HE TALKING TO!?" She flung the phone on the couch and answered Double 2 with the angry declaration, "He's in a silver minivan!"

Smokey Baehr looked completely gobsmacked by these developments. "I'll get on the radio," he said to the agent, heading for the door. "See who picked him up."

"And when you find him, I'm going to – uuuuuuurgh!" Candace screamed, at a loss for words dire enough to express her fury.

 _To be continued…_


	9. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 4

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 4

Candace Petersen was waiting in the downtown Danville police station for her husband. She had changed from her ballgown into a sensible sweater and slacks, but her hair was still in an updo and her eyes and lips were still made up for the evening. Captain Hedges' office on the fourth floor had a clear view of City Hall and Candace stood by the windows, watching the activity outside. The snow had never amounted to more than a few flurries, and the night was turning clear and frigid. People in formal dress had continued to approach the white domed building across the way, expecting to join a festive New Year's Eve party only to be turned away by the police. Mike Van Headofapilgrim was down in the street with his cameraman and a news van. The Channel 9 Chopper hovered around the dome, and even a couple of news outlets from Oakdale had trucks on site. Ambrose had thought the journalism business was dead in Danville. No – it just needed something to wake it up.

Captain Hedges had left her office to go deal with the reporters in the police station, but Candace was not alone. The burly Officer Baehr, Smokey to his friends, was sitting at the Cap's desk, updating reports on his tablet and eating a microwave burrito. He had offered Candace something from the snack bar, but as hungry as she was, she didn't have the stomach to eat anything. Baehr had pushed a bottle of water on her and she'd been drinking sporadically from that. Thank goodness for Smokey; he'd stuck by her through the bizarre unfolding of this night and she didn't know what she would have done without him. She had known the veteran policeman since her first days as a reporter at WJOP, and he'd always been a reliable source of information, but this time he was nearly as much in the dark as she was.

Candace was still idly watching the activity below in the street when a police vehicle with flashing lights came into view from around the corner, and she snapped to attention. "The van's back," she announced.

Smokey got up and took a look for himself, then patted her shoulder. "You stay here," he instructed. "Don't go anywhere," he reiterated before leaving the office and closing the door. The police van drove past the front of the building, blasting its siren a couple of times to signal the reporters to back off, and disappeared around the side of the Police Station. She had asked Smokey why the Michigan State Troopers had told the Danville police they needed a van and why they couldn't just bring Ambrose back in a patrol car. He didn't know, and seemed as puzzled about it as she was.

She had been sitting on the Captain's couch for several minutes, watching the clock and waiting for something to happen, when Officer Baehr came back. As soon as she saw him through the glass of the door, she was on her feet. The moment he entered, he raised his hands in a calming gesture and uttered the two words: "He's fine."

"What on earth was he doing?" she demanded, still flabbergasted by the events of the last few hours.

"Sit down," he closed the door. "Look, this is completely off the record, but I'll tell you what I know. And I'll warn you up front, it isn't much. Apparently, something's going on in Drusselstein and the Mayor's gotten mixed up in it. It sounds like he may be in pretty deep, but the GLIB guys aren't saying much."

"But, what does that have to do with Ambrose?"

Smokey rubbed the back of his bristly head before he admitted, "Our buddy Agent Double 2 used the word 'accomplice.' I told you," he reacted to Candace's look of shock, "I don't know much; they're playing their cards really close. Have you ever heard of a thing called 'pizzazium infinionite'?" It was clear Baehr had never heard the words before, himself.

"No, what is that supposed to be?"

"Some weird glowing green rocks," was the best explanation he could come up with. "GLIB found a couple of chips of the stuff in your minivan and they're impounding it."

"Is that why they arrested Ambrose?" she demanded.

"Technically, he's not under arrest," Smokey reassured her. "Right now, they're just calling him a person of interest. I don't know how long that's going to last, though. They picked him up with a van full of Badinkadinks."

This was the last straw for Candace. "Really?!" she railed. "REALLY!? This is worse than that stupid 'Ferb Latin' day. What in the world are Badinkadinks?"

"Come see for yourself," he invited. As they walked out into the squad room, Smokey added, "I know; I'd never heard of them before, either. I mean, I've seen some pretty weird things in Danville in my time, but this is a new one."

He took her to the two way mirror outside an interrogation room and flipped the switch to reveal what was inside it. Candace stared. Five – six – no seven little blue men in skirts of leaves, sitting on the floor, the table, the chairs, chattering blithely to each other and eating what looked like peanut butter and doonkelberry sandwiches.

Amanda's Little Blue Men.

How long had Ambrose known they were real?

"I want to see my husband," said Candace. The voice that came out of her was shockingly calm.

Officer Baehr looked for a moment like he was about to refuse, but reconsidered and said, with a sympathetic sigh, "I'll see what I can do. Come on," he motioned. "You'd better go back to the office."

On the way back through the squad room, she saw another man being brought in. She recognized him by sight, with his unmistakeable bat-like features, pointed ears and fangs; he was someone Vanessa knew. Despite being escorted with a firm hand by a somber, trench-coated GLIB agent, the weird-looking man appeared quite at home in the police station, smiling and chatting cordially with the officers, all of whom seemed to know him. He spotted Baehr and gave him a friendly wave, and Smokey remarked to Candace, "Looks like Double 7 picked up the Mayor's cousin." With a grimace, he muttered, " _This_ should be good."

The officer took her back where they'd come from and Candace was left sitting on Captain Hedges' couch again, her arms folded over her knees, head bent in thought. Why hadn't Ambrose told her about the badinka-things, and the pizzazzy-whatever? Why hadn't he told her about whatever was going on at the power plant that had triggered this whole mess? Could he be writing on some expose for a national news magazine? Surely he would have shared that with her. They could have worked on it together, an intrepid journalistic team. Could he be working undercover for GLIB? Well, that didn't seem likely – not just because he appeared to be on their wanted list, but because she really couldn't see Ambrose as the secret agent type. She would have been less surprised to hear that her family's pet platypus was a secret agent.

She had finished her bottle of water and was on her feet looking out the windows again when Baehr came in the office and shut the door. He looked grim and anxious.

"Candace…" he said, and pointed at the sofa, requesting her to take a seat. When she had, he sat down beside her. He stalled for a minute, rubbing his hands together and clearing his throat, until she touched his shoulder. He looked her in the eye and said, "Double 2 gave me the lowdown. It's bad, Candace," he shook his head. "Really bad. Oh, not for Ambrose," he quickly put in when she shrank from him. "At least, not if he cooperates. All he's done so far is clam up."

Candace stiffened as she said, "Well, maybe he should, if you're all accusing him of something."

"We're just trying to get the facts," the officer argued. "Whatever he's done, it's small potatoes compared to – Look," he stopped himself from finishing the sentence and told her, "Double 2 wants to see you; he'll tell you what's up. He's hoping you can talk some sense into your husband."

A few hours ago, Candace would have thought that was a task she excelled at. Now, as she walked through the Danville Police Station squad room, she wasn't so sure.

 _To Be Continued…_

 **A/N – I used the name "Detective Hedges" in "Best Served Cold" – obviously, she's gotten a promotion since then.**

 **Don't worry – you will eventually see the encounter between Candace and Ambrose in the interrogation room. But I have a couple more chapters to pop in here first before we deal with that.**


	10. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 5

**A/N - Sometimes I think all the work I've done on this story was just so I could get to _THIS..._**

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 5

It was January 1, 5:42 am, and Vanessa Doofenshmirtz had had a couple of hours of sleep, tops. Ferb's compadres at Ackerton State sure knew how to throw a party. The Underwater Welders had pumped up the crowd with their upbeat rock, and their green-haired guitarist had looked seriously hot in his leather and shades. She loved watching Ferb and his friends play, but she was glad they'd been only one of several campus bands taking turns on the stage so she also had plenty of time to dance with him. The musical sounds of the various combos had ranged from southern funk to western swing, sultry salsa to the jump-jivin' jazz of the seven-member Little Big Band, and in between live sets, Ferb's friend Cory had served as a DJ, spinning tunes to keep the party hopping. A couple of the chemistry students had concocted a sort of faux-champagne, more sophisticated than the usual sparkling cider but alcolhol-free to keep any of the college kids from getting busted for underage drinking. The food had been plentiful and as varied as the music, including some traditional touches; there had been an impromptu competition over who had brought the best homemade tamales, and Ferb's engineering cohort and fellow Underwater Welder Ruthie Leeper had been pushing black-eyed peas on everyone like the good southern-fried girl she was. Stuffed and exhausted, Vanessa and Ferb had staggered home to the bungalow around 3 am, shared a sip of real champagne before giving up on the idea of any more celebrating that night, and crashed out.

Now it was 5:42 am and her cell phone was ringing. The sound woke her up, and she felt Ferb stirring beside her. She recognized the ring tone, and Ferb groaned groggily, "Sounds like your father."

"I can't believe he's checking up on me," Vanessa grumbled, turning over. Her phone was plugged in on the dresser and she was not getting up for it.

The voice mail message kicked in, and Dr. Doofenshmirtz's voice came from the device. Vanessa could actually hear him from across the room; he sounded hysterical. "Vanessa, pick up! Where are you? Did you see this?! I can't believe it! Why aren't you answering the phone?! Call me!"

This unexpected message made her roll onto her back and raise herself on an elbow. "Seriously? What is he freaking out about?"

Ferb's cell phone rang. It was in the pocket of his trousers, which were still on the floor by his side of the bed, and he reached an arm over and groped for it. He barely even glanced at the screen before passing it to her. "It's for you."

With an exasperated sigh, Vanessa took it and answered, " _What_ , Dad?"

"Fletcher, where's Vanes – oh, that's you. Did you see this!?"

"See what?"

"The news! Did you know about this?"

"Dad, it's like five in the morning, you woke me up. What is this about?"

"You haven't seen the news? It's everywhere! It's even on the L.O.V.E.M.U.F.F.I.N. website! Oh, I'll bet Rodney couldn't WAIT to post it."

Ferb could obviously hear every word of this, and had gotten up to retrieve her phone from the dresser. He started pulling up the evil organization's website and she saw his eyes go wide and his pupils shrink with the shock of what came up. Without a word, he held out the phone to show her.

The headline at the top of the news feed read: DOOFENSHMIRTZ! EVIL, INC.? And below the headline was a photograph of the smiling, well-coiffed face of…

"Uncle Roger?!" she exclaimed.

"It's ROGER!" Doof railed.

"Uncle Roger is _evil_?" Vanessa couldn't believe it. This had to be someone's idea of a joke.

"He's _EVIL!_ " her father confirmed. Vanessa put Ferb's phone on speaker as the man continued to rant and took her phone from Ferb, skimming the article as she scrolled through it. Dad was going on. "He's been scheming to take over Drusselstein! Why didn't I think of that?"

He went on ranting while Vanessa continued reading, Ferb leaning on her shoulder and following along. The phrases that leapt out at her just made the whole thing more jarring: fraud – conspiracy – market manipulation – pizzazium smuggling – assassination plots… Wide-eyed, she glanced at Ferb and saw that he was equally astonished.

"He even had _minions_!" her father railed. "I've never had minions!"

Vanessa had just reached this part of the article. "What are – BADin-KADin…?" she struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar word.

"Badinkadinks," said Ferb, obviously familiar with the term, but clearly surprised to see it. "Phineas found them in the basement of the toy factory," he explained to her under his breath. "That summer." This phrase had become shorthand for the summer they had first met.

"Where did he get all that pizzazium?" she marveled. Only twice had she ever seen or even heard of the rare element: once at the MegaStore when she was sixteen, then a few months ago when Dad had worn that tie tack he got from…

"From _Mother_!" said Heinz. "That piece of land she left him? It was on top of a gold mine of pizzazium! Well, not a _gold_ mine," he corrected. "Then he would have had a lot of gold. And of course I suppose he still had the pizzazium locator – how lucky is that? He wouldn't have even known what it was if I hadn't told him."

"What was he doing with the – ?" Vanessa began to ask, then bit her tongue as she was pulled out of her distracted state by the memory. Long ago, after she had kissed Ferb goodbye at the end of their MegaStore adventure, the resourceful green-haired boy had recovered the broken pieces of the pizzazium detector and rebuilt it for her, and she had returned it to her father. Now, Dad was already recounting his part of the story.

"Don't you remember? I had it at the Doofenshmirtz Family Reunion, just poking around the park with it, not bothering anyone, and Mother caught me, 'skulking around,'" he quoted her sarcastically, "instead of being _sociable_ like _Ro-oger_ , and she took it away from me and gave it to him. He didn't even know what it was!" the man railed again. "But he wouldn't give it back. 'I'm sorry, Heinz,'" he mocked his brother's tone, "'but you heard what Mother said.' Trust me, he was _not_ sorry. You don't remember, Vanessa? It was at the Family Reunion," he reiterated. "After the Kickinator year, but before the year you made those cookies."

"How could I forget?" Vanessa retorted with dry displeasure. Although he might not have meant to express it, he had referred to 'those cookies' with a trace of disgust, and she was not letting him dredge _that_ up. "Do you think your Mother knew?"

"No-o-o," he sounded contemplative. "She wouldn't have given me the tie tack if she thought it was anything more than a funny-looking rock. It sounds like no one knew about it until Roger found it and started digging it up. That's what he needed the minions for," he pointed out.

Vanessa was trying to piece together what information had been reported so far about her uncle's plot. She wasn't an evil genius, herself, no matter what Dad might have wished, but even she couldn't resist commenting, "You know, his scheme is unnecessarily complicated, and doesn't even seem like it would work."

"You're telling me!" the Evil Scientist burst out in agreement.

She had reached the paragraph about her uncle's accomplices and recognized the names of Zengle and Guiserblint, Melanie Grissel and Cousin Nartheliott. Ferb was slightly ahead of her and she heard him mutter, "Bloody hell," just before her eyes found the last name: Ambrose Petersen. He pulled away, looking as if he'd been puched in the stomach. Letting Dad blather on unheeded, she reached out and rubbed a hand over Ferb's back and heard him murmur a barely audible, "Poor Candace."

"Oh, and you want to know the best part?" Dr. Doofenshmirtz was going on. "You know how I could never get my Doonkeline to work? That's because it _doesn't_ work. Not for anyone! It's snake oil! Roger sold everyone on this miraculous Doonkenol and it's snake oil! But, of course, everyone just believed it because he's _Ro-oger_ and he's so wonderful."

"I should have known," said Ferb out of nowhere. When Vanessa looked into his eyes and brushed back a lock of green hair, he answered her curious gaze. "About the Doonkenol." He spoke up toward his phone, addressing the Doctor. "You never could make it work."

"Yes, thank you, Fletcher," he drawled sarcastically. "Just rub it in, why don't you?"

"But, you're brilliant," said Ferb. "If you couldn't make it work – of course no one could."

For the first time, Heinz Doofenshmirtz's tone softened a little as he sighed, "Yeah, thanks for the flattery, kid. But, what am I supposed to do now?" For the first time ever, Vanessa thought her father sounded old and tired. "Roger's scheme was seriously evil. He nearly took over a country! How can I top that?" he lamented.

"Dad, you don't have to –" she tried to comfort him, but he went right on talking over her.

His voice was weirdly soft and pensive. "All these years of Doing Evil – it was the one thing Roger could never beat me at. And now he has." There was a gloomy silence for a moment, and then he added, "I guess I really am a failure."

"Rubbish," said Ferb, in a clear, firm voice that took Vanessa by surprise. "You're an inventor, you can't let a little thing like this get you down. Roger bested you at Doing Evil? So what? It's time you showed him you're the better man at Doing Good."

Vanessa knew that Ferb could have talked her into anything with that inspiring British determination, but her father replied, "Seriously, Fletcher? That's the best you've got? 'Just do good'?" The old familiar edge was coming back into his tone. "What do you think I'm supposed to do, just turn all my evil inators into things that would benefit society…" His tone had been drenched in sarcasm up to this point, then he stopped short. "Wa-a-ait a minute. Maybe I _could_ use my inators to benefit society. I could make a fortune! You know, I'm still getting royalties from that eye exam thing… I could help people eat whatever they want and still lose weight! I could make people handsome! I could turn bricks and metal into broccoli and pineapple juice and feed the world! Wow, I'm really having an epiphany here! And not like that last one, that one didn't turn out so good," he admitted. "But this time – I think I've really got something!" As he spoke, Vanessa heard in the background a faint _whoosh_ and a small thump, and Dad's voice moved away from the phone. "Oh, good," she heard him remark, "Perry the Platypus! Your timing is impeccable. And by impeccable, I mean – wait, I think I've used that one before. Never mind. Now that you're here, you can help me with this." His voice was suddenly louder as he returned his attention to the phone and his daughter. "Sweetie, I've gotta go," he blurted. "I've got work to do!"

And with that, the line went dead.

Vanessa turned to the green-haired young man sitting beside her. His knees were drawn up and his head was in his hands. His pensive, unfocused look clearly told her he was lost in Ferbland. Gently, she put an arm around him and caressed and rubbed his far shoulder. She couldn't imagine how long her father would have wallowed in his misery, lamenting his failure and rambling about the pointlessness of his life if not for Ferb's incisive remarks. She leaned over and held her lips against his cheek for several seconds in a soft, grateful kiss. He responded by turning his face slightly toward hers, welcoming the contact, then after a moment, he reached over and picked up his phone.

"Are you calling Candace?" she asked, when he began touching the screen.

Ferb shook his head. "Just texting. She won't want to talk to me," he opined. "She'll expect me to say, 'I told you so.'"

Vanessa saw the message he sent: _I'm here if you want to talk._ Then he put aside the phone.

"I guess you were right about him," she said softly, referring to Ambrose.

Ferb shook his head again. "No. I just thought he was annoying. I never imagined this."

 _To be continued…._

 **A/N – I've had so much of this chapter in my head for so long. At one point, I was tempted to skip everything else and just explain the whole plot by having Ferb and Vanessa talk about it. And yes, I made a callback to one of my favorite Doof lines, from "Sidetracked."**


	11. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 6

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 6

Roger Doofenshmirtz sat in a stark, stone cell in the depths of some forgotten dungeon of justice in the city of Paris. He was wearing a dowdy, homespun dress, and his face still showed random pencil lines and bits of residue from the old age makeup that had been clumsily removed from him by the gendarmes. His brown hair was a terrible mess – honestly, if they were going to pull the gray wig off of him, they could at least have lent him a comb. Roger had kept most of his late mother's personal possessions, not only the significan and sentimental ones, but even the most mundane, because he simply couldn't bring himself to dispose of them. It wasn't as if he'd had the foresight to know how useful they would become, but ultimately he had realized that her clothes, her passport, her very identity could help him out if matters got sticky for him. It was almost as if Mother was still watching over him from Beyond.

He might have pulled off the deception if he'd only been dealing with the police. But two representatives of the Global League of Investigative Bureaus had intercepted him coming off the plane in Paris: a German with an affable smile and steely eyes, and a stone-faced Finn who sounded like a Scandinavian version of that "Termination" fellow from the movies. The GLIB agents packed a DNA scanner, and it would have taken more time and preparation (not to mention some help from a more scientific mind) for him to fool that.

The iron bars of the old fashioned jail cell separated him from a whitewashed office area where two gendarmes and another agent of GLIB were stationed. They stood and sat and drank coffee and spoke French to each other, but always kept at least two pairs of eyes on him. Another agent had stopped by briefly to consult with the men on duty, and with him had been what appeared to be a mongoose in a fedora. The sight reminded Roger of Guiserblint's claim that an ostrich in a fedora had absconded with the Queen of Drusselstein. What was this sudden craze for stylish headwear on animals?

Perhaps he should have just let Baldegunde go. Except he couldn't be sure of how much of his scheme she might have puzzled out. Of course, if Guiserblint had just eliminated her in the first place, the way he was supposed to, they would all be sitting pretty. Well, he reconsidered, as long as that doofus-head DOOFAS Head Zengle could have kept himself out of the European celebrity tabloids for a week or two. Seriously, this would have gone so much better if Roger could have done everything himself.

When had the first germ of this plot sprouted in his mind? Probably not long after Mother had passed, leaving him rudderless and feeling his age. The Tri-State Area had already grown dull to him. Being Mayor had its perks, but there was really nowhere to go. For a day or two he had flirted with the idea of a run for President. But what was the point? It was just being Mayor again on a bigger stage, and with more problems, not only keeping the voters happy, but battling with Congress and those pesky Justices. It was too bad he couldn't just have his own country…

Guiserblint had given him the first solid idea. Roger had gone to his birthplace to accept some accolade, and the Drusselsteinian Minister of Foreign Affairs had buttonholed him after the formal banquet and started bending his ear. The man had consumed a little too much fermented goat's milk and blathered without discretion about how wretched his life had been ever since the Queen had come of age and ascended to the throne. Back in the days when she was an orphaned teenage Princess, Baldegunde had cared mostly about clothes and cute boys, and Guiserblint had enjoyed free reign over the country. Oh, yes, technically he had been just a glorified servant, but the Princess was young and naïve and Guiserblint kindly took care of all those bothersome royal decisions for her. Then, the man lamented, after all his hard work she had had the nerve to _grow up_ and start taking her duties seriously and asking questions and doing things for the good of the people and it was just all too much for him to stomach. Queen Baldegunde was so aggravatingly _nice_ , she had actually, with her own regal hands, baked doonkelberry pies for the Drusselsteinian Orphans' Home.

Roger would swear to the end that it was Guiserblint who had first mused on how much better things would be if Baldegunde took a tumble off the tallest tower of the castle.

The next day of that visit, Roger Doofenshmirtz had been feted by the Amalgamated Syndicate of Doonkelberry Growers, as the DOOFASes were then known. Their president, Mr. Zengle, had confided to him that the global doonkelberry market was lagging and could really use some creative ideas to promote the fruit to foreign buyers. Roger had feigned interest but dismissed the concern as soon as he was on his way back to Danville. Then a week or two later, he'd been out on that piece of property Mother had left him, pondering a use for it and wondering what sort of golf course it would make, when he had found that odd glowing pebble. He hadn't known at first what it was, but a little research had prompted him to dig through every drawer in his house to find that old contraption of Heinz's that he'd ended up with, and a couple of late-night expeditions with the pizzazium locator had yielded results beyond his wildest dreams. Roger Doofenshmirtz was sitting on the world's biggest lode of pizzazium infinionite, and no one knew…

From that point, it was hard to reconstruct what had happened next, and which pieces of the puzzle had been the first to fall into place. Getting the pizzazium out of the ground without alerting any meddling authorities had been a challenge until the night Roger had ventured into the depths of the City Hall basement in search of the Tri-State Area property records and had discovered the little blue men living in the catacombs. Roger had been as ignorant of them as anyone, but the friendly little fellows had told him how they had been brought to the shining city of Danville a century or so ago by Billy Bonka the Candy Maker. It had been decades since the candy factory had closed, and years since they had been released from its old site, but the Badinkadinks were still around, living in one basement or another, eating the weeds from vacant lots and longing for the good old days of useful employment. They had leapt at the offer of mining pizzazium in exchange for a steady diet of fresh doonkelberry plants, and Roger Doofenshmirtz had become their hero. He trusted them more than any human workers he could have hired. Billy Bonka and his legendary factory had been dead and gone for fifty years, but his loyal blue minions still refused to divulge even a hint of the candy maker's secrets.

Zengle had been pushing the idea of a doonkelberry miracle fuel for a year or two with no success (and no fuel). Guiserblint was easily worked into a blissful dither by the prospect of overthrowing the Queen, not to mention the promise of pizzazium-fueled weapons that would make Drusselstein the envy of Europe. Of course, the Minister thought the revolution was all his idea, and assumed that he would be left in charge when it was done. Roger knew that Melanie would be onboard with him whatever he proposed, and when he needed a scientific mind to figure out how to power the city off a lump of pizzazium in the depths of a fake Doonkenol plant, Cousin Narthelliot had been surprisingly helpful. Roger hesitated to call the man a genius, but he was smart enough to handle the technology, and sufficiently unscrupulous to play along. Best of all, he didn't argue or try to take things over, and was unlikely to blow everything to bits, literally or figuratively. In other words, he wasn't Heinz.

Ambrose Petersen had been a bit of an afterthought, and Melanie never had been enthusiastic about bringing him in. Roger was aware, however, that the reporter idolized him, and reasoned that Petersen would be more easily controlled working inside the office than writing for the _Daily Danville_. A little well-placed corporate glad-handing on the Mayor's part had hastened the extinguishing of the local newspaper, and the unexpected good luck of Mrs. Petersen dreaming of an extended maternity leave from WJOP's newsroom was just icing on the cake. Ambrose, himself, had been a dream come true – every little favor Roger did for him, every bit of interest the Mayor showed in his dear charming family, just bound the grateful young man closer. Melanie and Narthelliot knew Roger too well, and Zengle and Guiserblint were too blinded by their own ambitions to care, but bless his heart, Ambrose Petersen actually believed that Mayor Roger Doofenshmirtz was a Knight in Shining Armor devoted to saving the world by any means necessary.

Yes, Roger sighed, it was a pity matters had reached this point for him, dressed like Mother and sitting in a cell. It would have been nice to be the Supreme Ruler of Drusselstein. He would have paid his idealistic young acolyte handsomely to come with him. Ambrose Petersen would have made a splendid Minister of Propaganda.

 _To be concluded…_


	12. The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan - Part 7

The Doonkelshtump Hits the Fan – Chapter 7

Candace was back in the brick cottage in Meadowcrest. She was sprawled on the couch with an afghan thrown over her legs. She'd come home at some point after midnight and had gotten as far as changing into pajamas, but she couldn't bring herself to actually crawl into bed. She had too much thinking to do.

She had dozed fitfully through the wee hours, and now she stirred to consciousness again. She'd left the television on the children's channel Amanda watched, and glanced idly at the screen to find some pixie pony princess drama playing out. Candace had left the kiddie network on because it was one of the few channels she was pretty certain would not be broadcasting the breaking news. Now she stretched and sat up and rubbed her aching head. The time was a little after 6 am. Happy New Year.

The text message alert on her cell phone chimed and she flopped back against the couch cushions with a groan. This was going to be a long day; she supposed everyone who knew her would be calling and texting, being all sympathetic and trying to find out what was going on. Candace had called her mother from the police station at some point last night, to forestall Mom from calling her in a tizzy over the unfolding reports, and to warn her to keep the kids from seeing any news. She had let any calls she didn't need to answer go to voice mail, and she had not replied to a single text message, but when she picked up the phone this time and glanced at the screen, she felt a twinge of comfort. It was Ferb. Not surprisingly, his message was a simple one. _I'm here if you want to talk_. Of course he was.

Candace stared at the message for a minute. The prospect of her brother's patient ear and cool judgment was inviting, and in other circumstances, she would have leapt at it. But.. Ferb's opinion of Ambrose had never been high, and even though she knew he wouldn't utter the words, the aura of ' _I told you so'_ was not something she wanted to face. As angry and frustrated as she was with her husband right now, she refused to hear anyone else disparage him.

Setting aside the phone, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the cushion, and again, like a movie, her mind began to replay her conversation with Ambrose at the police station…

Candace was standing outside an interrogation room, Officer Baehr at her side. He rapped at the door and, motioning for her to stay where she was, entered the room, closing the door behind him. In the brief view she had of the interior, Ambrose was out of sight, but she caught a glimpse of GLIB Agent Double 2 rising from his chair to meet the officer. A minute or so passed before the door opened again and Double 2 came out.

"Mrs. Petersen," the British man approached her courteously, "before you see your husband, I'd like to bring you up to speed. Shall we?" He ushered her into the adjoining room. The two-way mirror was inactive, she could not see her husband on the other side of the wall. Double 2 offered a seat and asked if she would care for a cup of tea – or coffee, or water. When she declined, he took a chair, himself, and proceeded to lay out before her what he knew about the unravelling scheme. Candace absorbed it all in silence. At one point, Double 2 paused to ask, "Your husband never mentioned any of this?" and all she could do was shake her head no. How could this have all unfolded practically under her nose? Had she been so absorbed in her pregnancy, in her children, not to question anything going on outside her little sphere? Had she really been satisfied with Ambrose's carefree assertions that everything was fine, work was fine, life was all kittens and rainbows and there's my Manda Panda and oh, what's for dinner? Was she so content to trust him and be happy _he_ was happy that she had dismissed any fleeting hints that things weren't quite right? One question above all gnawed at her: What had happened to her Busting Sense?

At last, Double 2 rose and asked, "Are you ready?" Candace nodded, and he escorted her to the next room where Ambrose was waiting. Outside the door, he said, "Officer Baehr and I will be observing behind the glass. We can hear everything. If you have any trouble…"

Candace raised a hand to brush off his concern. He knocked and Baehr came out. Smokey also looked Candace in the face and asked under his breath, "You all right?" She nodded, and he gave her arm an encouraging pat. "We'll be right there," he reiterated what the GLIB agent had said about them keeping an eye on things. Candace acknowledged this with another nod and walked into the interrogation room. They closed the door behind her.

Ambrose was sitting behind the table. He looked annoyed, and stubbornly noble, and apparently unharmed. The moment he saw his wife, he immediately got to his feet and said, "Candace! Are you all right?"

"No. No I'm not." The words almost startled her when they came out of her mouth.

Ambrose glowered. "If those GLIB goons have been harassing you-"

Candace bristled. "Those 'GLIB goons' are the only ones who have told me anything! How long have you known about the little blue men?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard, and she could see him puzzling over how to answer this before he finally addressed her real question. "I couldn't tell you about them. They're an endangered species; we were protecting them."

"And you couldn't trust me with that?" Seriously, she was the girl who had let everyone think she was crazy in order to help her brothers protect the Lake Nose Monster. Of course, she didn't suppose Ambrose knew about that. Still…

"Candace, this is all very complicated," her husband said, in a tone she found annoyingly officious.

"It's completely insane," she countered. "You were actually part of a _revolution_?"

Her agitation was making him soften his voice and slow his words. "Honey, why don't you sit down?" He made a move to lower himself to his chair but hovered halfway down until she was seated. In a deliberately patient tone that did nothing to soothe her, he said, "I don't know what they've told you, but you're taking this all out of context. Drusselstein is in trouble and the Mayor is trying to help sort it out…"

"Really? _Really?_ You actually believe that?" The aggravation was getting her nowhere and she took a deep breath. Maybe he really didn't understand what was going on. "Ambrose," she spoke more gently, as if reasoning with Amanda about why you don't go into the street without holding Mommy's hand, "Roger Doofenshmirtz wasn't helping Drusselstein. He was going to take over the country." When he started to shake his head and speak, she reached out and laid her hand on his to focus his attention and said, "He was going to kill Queen Baldegunde."

She expected Ambrose to react to this with shock; surely this was something he hadn't been aware of. But she was the one stunned when he groaned and brushed this off. "That was all Guiserblint. He's a loose cannon. And nobody got killed."

"You're lucky they didn't," said Candace, "or this would be a lot worse than it already is." If he was really that oblivious, she had to ask, "Have you called a lawyer?"

"I don't need a lawyer," he puffed. "I haven't done anything wrong."

Was he kidding? "They said you had pizzazium in the van! They said you need all sorts of documentation to transport that."

"See, that's exactly what I mean," Ambrose leaned in with that overly-patient tone again. "They're blowing this all out of proportion; they're trying to scare you. There were a couple of flecks of the stuff on the Badinkadinks, it was no big deal. They just wanted an excuse to bring me in."

How could he sit there and act as if they were discussing Trixie chewing a pair of her shoes? "I'm calling you a lawyer," she declared bluntly.

"I don't need one!" he protested again, more firmly. "Besides, GLIB already gave me immunity."

Candace sat back in the chair. Eyes wide, she was silent for a moment before bursting out, "Why would they give you immunity IF YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!?"

Ambrose sighed and rolled his eyes – actually _rolled his eyes_ at her. "Candy Cane…"

"Don't call me that," she cut him off. "They," she pointed at the authorities invisible behind the mirror, "are not making this up. Your Hero the Mayor has been smuggling pizzazium to Guiserblint, helping the DOOFAS people manipulate the markets… Did you know that DOOFAS is practically an organized crime syndicate?"

Again, she expected some sign of surprise from him at this news, but he gave a snort and wisecracked, "They're Drusselsteinian; it's more like _dis_ organized crime."

"You think this is funny?!" Candace was on her feet. "Why didn't I know about _any_ of this before now?!"

He pushed back the chair and got up as well. "For Pete's sake, Candy—Candace," he reconsidered the endearment. "This is a sensitive international situation, I couldn't just tell people…"

"Is that what I am?" she was taken aback. " _'People'_?"

"You see," he threw out his hands in frustration, "you're taking everything the wrong way."

"What way am I supposed to take it?" she demanded, jaw clenched. "All year long, you've been working all hours, coming and going, jumping every time the Mayor calls, and _this_ is what you've been doing?"

Ambrose pointed at her – _Oh, no he didn't!_ thought Candace – actually pointed an accusing finger at _her_ and retorted, "You want to know what I've been doing all year? Taking care of my family. You've got a nice house, Amanda's in the best school, you get to stay home and play Mom for as long as you want - How do you think all that happened?"

"We were fine," she protested. "We didn't need any of that." When he started to argue, she planted both hands on the table and leaned in to impress upon him, "Roger Doofenshmirtz is a crook, and you were right there with him the whole way, because you trusted him more than you trust your own wife." She braced herself for an argument, but Ambrose said nothing, just breathed deeply and clenched his jaw. The truth had clearly struck a nerve, and he had no answer for it. Candace pushed aside the chair and stepped back from the table. The words that came from her surprised her as much as they surprised him. "You had better call a hotel, because if they let you out of here, you are not coming home tonight."

"Candace…" he started to come around from behind the table to intercept her, but stopped when she glared and made a gesture to warn him off. She had her hand on the doorknob when he spoke out frankly, "What do you expect me to do?"

She paused for a moment, her back to him, and swallowed hard before she gave voice to the thought that consumed her. Candace looked back over her shoulder at her husband, trying to contain the lump in her throat. Her last words before she walked out of the room were: "Tell me how I'm ever supposed to trust you again."

Now, it was New Year's morning, and Candace was back home on the couch, and she still had no answer to that aching question. She hadn't heard a word out of Ambrose since. Either he was giving her time to cool down, or he was expecting her to make the next move. Either way, things had changed, and she didn't know if they would ever be able to get back to where they were only twenty-four hours ago.

Candace looked again at Ferb's text message on the phone. _I'm here if you want to talk._ A patient ear and some cool judgment would have done her a world of good, but Candace wasn't ready to unburden herself just yet. Instead, she texted back: _Thanks, Ferb. Maybe later._

The End

 **A/N – There will be a separate Candace and Ferb story in the future, but that's it for this one.**


	13. Postscript

The Doonkelberry Revolution – Author's Postscript

Like the Foreword, this is something I've never done before and will probably never do again, but I wanted to share the backstory on where this all came from.

This all started early in the construction of my Ferbnessa head-canon. I wanted Heinz Doofenshmirtz, by the time he was a Grandpa and his life was pretty good, to have given up Doing Evil. This was before even the "Agent Doof" epiosde, so I was thinking, _What would motivate Heinz to give up Evil?_ His issues with Roger motivate him a lot in the series, so I started thinking, _What if Roger was Evil?_ Yes, in the series, he's a "Goody Two-Shoes," but he also comes across as a bit smarmy, and he is, at heart, a politician. "Doing Evil" has always been the one thing Heinz could do that Roger couldn't beat him at – but what if he did?

Long before I had any idea of what sort of Evil Roger would actually do, I had the "reveal" scene: Heinz would call Vanessa in the early hours of morning, all upset about something, and tell her to look at the news; she would see the headline, DOOFENSHMIRTZ! EVIL, INC.? and there would be the photo of Roger. That bit has been in my mind from the start, and made it into the final story just as I always envisioned it. Figuring out Roger's goals and scheme took a lot, lot longer, and developed over a long time. The starting point was the concept that Roger, over the years since the series, had become Just Another Crooked Politician (with mundane scandals like bribery, influence peddling, maybe electioneering, money laundering…?) This is P&F World, though, and it needed to be something bigger, more colorful. I don't remember when the story of "Doonkenol! The Miracle Fuel that is Really a Fraud" started, but that was the first solid idea I really liked. I started involving the Drusselsteinians, Guiserblint and Zengle and the DOOFASes as co-conspirators. But if Dookenol wasn't actually powering the Tri-State Area – what was? In came the pizzazium infinionite. Where did Roger get the pizzazium? How was the power plant running? Who actually knew about this? A LOT of this didn't start coming in or getting worked out until I was actually in the process of writing "The Doonkelberry Revolution." The Badinkadinks and Narthelliot were late additions, and I didn't even think of Roger having the pizzazium locator, or how he could have gotten it, until I already had the first couple of parts of this posted. (If I'd planned that better, there would have been an actual, innocent one-shot of Mom taking the device from Heinz and giving it to Roger without hinting at the consequences of such a simple action.)

Maybe I should say "SPOILER ALERT" around this point - but I think my regular readers have always known where my "Candace arc" would ultimately have to go...

I honestly don't remember when I realized that the "Roger is a Crook" story could help me with the problem of "How Do I Get Rid of Ambrose?" but I'm pretty sure it was after I introduced him (and his Roger-fixation) in "Christmas Song" and I know it was well before "Candy Cane Christmas." Pondering the issue of "Where Did Fred Come From?" posed in the P&F "Quantum Boogaloo" episode, I had decided I wanted Candace and Jeremy to follow in the footsteps of my backstory for Lawrence and Linda: young sweethearts go their separate ways, marry other people and have children, then end up reunited for a happily-ever-after with their blended family. But once I had the idea of a pre-Jeremy First Husband for Candace, I knew I also had to end that marriage. I have been figuratively biting my tongue for a long time over certain reviews because I was NEVER killing Ambrose. Ambrose was NOT EVER going to die. That's not how I roll. Yes, I killed Matt Flynn – but I felt I had to, since there is never any mention in the series of the missing Father of Phineas and Candace. I'm the one who "likes writing fluff and humor with the occasional poignant touch." Tragedy and Angst and Trauma aren't really my things. The absurdity of Ambrose getting pulled over in a minivan full of Badinkadinks is. I had no desire to leave Candace a Grieving Widow. I wanted to leave her as someone who had rushed into an ill-advised young marriage that had taken a bad turn – yes, that's still unhappy, I know, but in a different way. I could have just made Ambrose have an affair with another woman – but "that would be taking the easy way out and you know what they say about that" – and besides, I just couldn't see Ambrose cheating on his Candy Cane. Ironically, in the end, I realized that Ambrose getting embroiled in the Doonkenol Plot was a lot like an affair without the romantic/sexual aspect, as he's effectively seduced by Roger into all these lies and secrets and sneaking around while engaging in something Exciting and Dangerous.

My apologies to Dan and Swampy for mangling and corrupting their innocent characters. I do feel a little bad about what I did to poor Mr Zengle. He's a perfectly nice and likeable character in the series, and here I've turned him into a two-bit third-rate crime lord. For some reason, I feel less apologetic about corrupting the equally innocent Guiserblint, and Narthelliot was such a cipher to begin with, I feel no guilt over the fun I had with him.

TEASER: I have no idea if, or when, or how I might ever use this, but one of the ideas I had and rejected somewhere along the winding way of working out this Roger plot involved an entity called OEUVRE, Inc. that would build and run the Doonkenol plant. Big Bonus Points to anyone who can guess what OEUVRE stands for (it's a cool acronym!).

Speaking of Cool Acronyms: the GLIB agents were actually inspired by real people in an inside joke so obscure, I doubt anyone even thought about it. It has nothing to do with P&F, but something else I'm a casual follower of: Formula 1 auto racing (which does, admittedly, relate to the P&F episode "Live and Let Drive"). When I needed an international, globe-trotting bunch of agents, I used some current F1 drivers for inspiration. The numbers tell you which ones (on those agents to whom I gave numbers), and I would hope someone who knows F1 might recognize the two teammates who pick up Roger in Paris. In F1, the inspirations for "Double 2" and "Double 4" used to be teammates and became "My Team" when my sister got me watching this; a few years back, there actually was a little online cartoon series starring them and the fictional "Professor M" as their comedic British techno-boffin. (FWIW, "Double 7" is my sister's favorite current driver.)

Something I struggled with addressing in the story was _Where's Perry?_ His brief inclusion was the last addition I made to any part of this. The involvement of the European OWCA agents was only because I really wanted that 'Ostrich in a Fedora' bit – in the "Doonkelberry Imperative" episode, Doof hitches a ride to the DMV on a cart pulled by an ostrich – but what's an ostrich doing in Drusselstein? Hmm… My theory is that the Danville OWCA might not even notice Roger's actions because he's not on their "Evil Scientist" radar. And in my mind, when Perry shows up at Doof's on New Year's morning, he's not there on assigment to thwart his nemesis – he's there because he's heard the news and wants to check on his buddy.

There are, of course, a lot of loose ends left here, particularly concerning the future for Candace and Ambrose. There is a Candace-and-Ferb-discuss-things story coming, and this will all somehow get dealt with in the future.

Oh, and one more teaser: I'm not done with Baldegunde. Her Ultimate Fate is something I'm really looking forward to sharing in a future story.

Thanks for all who had the patience to read this, and it feels really good to have this story finally finished.

~~karly05


End file.
